


Batting the Cycle

by Slagathor99



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asthmatic Steve Rogers, Baseball, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Break Up, But through humor, Coming Out, Consensual Underage Sex, Dry Humping, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feelings, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Martyr Complex, Masturbation, Minor Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Panic Attacks, Pining, Pranks and Practical Jokes, School Dances, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Sports, Underage Drinking, Wet Dream, bisexual awakening, mild deception, very light dub con kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-01-26 10:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 81,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21372880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slagathor99/pseuds/Slagathor99
Summary: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes have been friends since before Steve can remember. They're inseparable; co-captains of the baseball team, lab partners, and, with the amount of time they spend in the other's houses, pretty much brothers. But, lately, Steve has been having a reoccurring dream of Bucky and him being decidedly more than friends. That can't happen. Steve has a girlfriend, and both him and Bucky are straight -- they're clearly just friends, no more, no less. But Steve can't shake the feeling that he'd love if they were more than that.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 90
Kudos: 288





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Updates will probably be relatively slow since life is terrible and doesn't give me nearly enough time to write, but they will be regular (probably about two-three weeks between chapters). Enjoy!

Steve was starting to hate his subconscious.

The dream was starting the same way it always did, the way it had since the first time he’d had it, last spring, the week before midterms. Steve had blamed the dream for him getting Ds on half of them, but he also didn’t know how true that was, since he’d definitely forgotten to study for most of them. But, in the long run, that didn’t matter, because those grades would go away in nine short months when he was graduated and heading to college. But this fucking dream didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

It always began the same, with Steve lying on his back in his bed, staring at the posters of Derek Jeter and Aaron Judge that he’d gotten for Christmas sophomore year and had taped up onto his ceiling minutes after unwrapping them. Soft afternoon light was filtering in through the window above his head, making everything feel warm and alight with a softly golden cast. The comforter under him was the same as always, soft and cottony and striped light-blue-and-green with that gross black stain at the bottom from when Steve’s pen had exploded in the middle of doing his homework. Everything was so detailed that it was like each time Steve dreamed it, his brain was revising it, making it more accurate, and, thus, more sickening. His room was a carbon copy of how it should have been when he was awake; old dresser shoved in the corner, scuffed and half the drawers stuffed so full they were perennially shoved open, shelves lined with textbooks and slim novels from when Steve still had time to read, myriad trophies from Steve’s thirteen years of being really fucking good at baseball scattered on every flat surface, the tangle of uniform pants and cleats and practice jerseys piled in a smelly heap in his special baseball hamper. Every stain, scuff, and scent was just as it should have been. As it had always been.

The point after Steve observed his surroundings was always when things got weird, but not in a bad way, at least. Not yet. It was the same as always; Steve noticing that his hands were fisted in that same striped comforter to the point that his knuckles were white and he was worried that he’d tear a hole in the fucking thing with just his fingernails. No matter how many fucking times he’d dreamed it, he was always confused about why he was gripping them so tight. He felt normal, just a little floaty. Inevitably, he always chalked that up to the fact that he was in his bed in mid-afternoon, presumably napping, and he always got swimmy when he napped — swimmy was no reason to be grabbing the sheets so fucking tightly. But then Steve’s attention would switch as he noticed the light pressure on his hip, a squeeze so light yet firm that it felt nice and reassuring, like it was telling Steve that it was okay that he was going to shred his comforter and probably wouldn’t be able to afford a new one until his mom got paid next month.

And then Steve looked down at the source of the squeeze, the way he always did. A soft, palely golden hand was wrapped around Steve’s hip, holding him tight and reassuringly. And Steve noted that the hand was attached to a slim wrist and arm clothed in a big navy hoodie that didn’t reveal too much else about the body attached to it other than the fact that Steve must have liked either it or the personality attached to it enough to give them his favorite Yankees hoodie.

This was always when Steve finally noticed his own cock. Specifically, the intense, incredibly wet pressure all around it. The soft moans he was spilling out. The profanities he was whispering, the way he kept biting his tongue. The way this phantom of a person was some kind of blowjob god. It never failed to astonish Steve that every time he dreamed this, he bothered to notice the clothing of the person sucking his dick before acknowledging the fact that they were, in fact, sucking his dick. It had to be some sort of dream logic, because awake-Steve would never in a million years been able to have even thought about anything other than his cock if it was being sucked as well as it was in his dream.

Because it was being sucked pretty fucking well. It was wet and sloppy and the person doing it was squeaking out this little contended high-pitched noises that proved that she was as into this as Steve was.

And Steve looked down again, like he always did, and noted the head of brunette curls that were falling all over his partner’s face. He wanted to lean out and grab them and tug them, encourage her to keep swirling her tongue over his shaft just so, but his hands were stuck in place, whether it be by how intensely he was fisting the sheets or by some weird, idiotic dream logic.

But at least now he knew the subject of his dream. Only one person had hair that fucking gorgeous and skin with that little glow to it and knew his cock that fucking well. His girlfriend of two and a half years. His Peggy.

Just like always, it was only now that Steve realized what was going on. No matter how many times he’d dreamed it, for some godforsaken reason he always waited until just now to realize just what was happening — realize that this was a wet dream. That was okay; he was a teenager. He was allowed to have a wet dream about his girlfriend every once in a while. In fact, it was probably good. It meant that he loved her, and wanted her, just like he should. Steve should really just let himself enjoy this, especially since he hadn’t seen Peggy since fucking June and it was now mid-August. So Steve’s dream-self stretched out and thrust his hips up, easy as anything, even though he’d dreamed this enough to know that this was a bad idea and that he was about to ruin this for himself.

Because this was always the worst part of the dream. The part where he heard a quiet choking noise that was at least two octaves below any sound in Peggy’s register. Steve’s head jerked up, and found himself staring into the wide blue-gray eyes of none other than Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Slow down, pal,” Bucky was teasing in a voice so low and rough and  _ hot _ that Steve probably would have come if he didn’t feel violently sick to his stomach. And then Bucky lowered his head and went back to sucking off his best friend.

***

Steve jerked awake, acutely aware of how sweaty he was and how hard he was breathing. And the way he was shivering. And how fucking hard he was, tenting his loose pajama pants obscenely. No matter how many times he’d dreamed that same awful dream, Steve always woke up like this, panting and hot and out-of-this-world levels of turned on.

Steve ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair desperately, taking stock of himself and trying to calm himself down. He wasn’t in the dream. He couldn’t have been. For one, his comforter was balled up in the corner of his bed, not twisted up under him. (God, Steve hoped he hadn’t been humping it.) For two, there wasn’t any soft afternoon light filtering down gently, just the gritty street light burning through his too-thin, moth-bitten curtains and illuminating his room in grimy shades of yellow and orange. And, for a skin-crawling three, Steve’s best friend in the world since before Steve could even remember and the man he’d just had a sex dream about, Bucky Barnes, was splayed out on the floor, the sheet Steve’s mom had tossed on him before he passed out the night before kicked off of his bulky frame and tangled around his ankles.

Bucky Barnes was Steve’s best friend in the world, co-captain with Steve of their school’s baseball team, Steve’s mom’s second son. And he was lying on Steve’s floor snoring obnoxiously and wearing nothing but a pair of Mets sweatpants because Bucky was traitorous in more ways than one. Right after Steve’d had a wet dream about him for the umpteenth time. Bucky’s chest, tanned and muscled from weeks of off-season practice, was laid out like it was fucking on display just to torture Steve. Steve let out a shuddering breath and tugged at the fabric of his own pajamas, trying to make sure that there was no way Bucky could see his erection while he stumbled to his feet.

Thank God Bucky was a heavy sleeper. Steve didn’t know what he’d do if Bucky stirred awake and saw how fucking hard Steve was. Because of a stupid sex dream. About his best friend. The guy who’d known Steve when Steve couldn’t run more than a hundred feet because of his fucking asthma. The guy who’d Steve had seen vomiting a violently-colored mixture of tequila and Red Bull on the side of the highway not once, but twice in the past six months. The guy who smoked half a pack a day because he thought it made him look cool, even though he’d practically asphyxiate during practice the next day if they had to do sprints. The best fucking mid-fielder in the state. Steve’s co-captain. Steve’s best friend.

Steve tried to tiptoe around Bucky, barely avoiding smacking his own head on one of his shelves. He’d hit his growth spurt and shot up a foot more than three years ago, but he still hadn’t moved that fucking thing. Because he was a lazy idiot. A lazy idiot who had sex dreams about his best friend. Who was, as evidenced by the five too many times Steve had accidentally walked in on him, definitely into women. Exclusively.

_ So are you, asshole _ , Steve thought savagely to himself as he swung his bedroom door open, praying to whatever God was awake at four in the morning on a Sunday morning that the creaking of the hinges as the door opened wouldn’t wake Bucky. Steve had to have been exclusively into women. He liked tits, he reminded himself brutally, and vaginas, and the way girls always smelled good. And, more importantly, he had a girlfriend. A  _ girl _ friend. And an amazing and beautiful one, at that. Captain of the debate team, lead in their school’s play three shows running, star of the school’s track team, and, if all went well until May, valedictorian. And she gave great fucking head, too. Steve loved her, more than he thought was possible, and he thought she was stupidly sexy and sweet and gorgeous. He wanted her all the time.

That was all this dream was, all it had ever been. A sex dream about his gorgeous, perfect girlfriend because he wanted her. And he’d only thought of Bucky’s face because Bucky slept over more often than not and Steve had just seen his face more than he had Peggy’s recently, since Peggy had been in England visiting family since June and it was now August. That didn’t quite explain why Steve had been having this dream since April, though. Or why he’d caught himself staring at Bucky more and more since then.

It wasn’t like it was intentional. Bucky was just shirtless around Steve half the time because he didn’t care and always seemed to run hot. And it wasn’t Steve’s fault for looking, not really; Bucky was an attractive guy. Steve got that. Bucky had big blue eyes and a tangle of dark hair and years of sports had wrapped a cast of muscle around his frame. Steve was probably just noticing that. It wasn’t like he’d ever want to sleep with Bucky, anyway. It’d be emotional incest. And, beyond that, he wasn’t into men. He couldn’t have been; he’d never, ever thought of a guy romantically or sexually until this stupid reoccuring dream started popping up in April.

Steve tried to convince himself of this more thoroughly as he breezed into his bathroom and shut the door as firmly as he could without slamming it and waking up his mom, who was just down the hall from him. Steve locked it and flicked on the light. He looked . . . Well, he looked debauched. His hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, artificially coloring the blond hair a soft shade of light brown. His cheeks were pink like he’d just sprinted across the bases during an inside-the-park homerun. And there was the fucking erection sticking out like a ship’s mast in front of him.

Steve didn’t waste time once he felt sure that the door was locked and no one else was awake; he just grabbed hand lotion from under the sink without ceremony, trying to avoid making any loud noises. The two people in the world who most definitely could not know that he was jerking off were each just a wall and less than twenty feet away. The hand lotion wasn’t ideal, but Steve wasn’t about to go back to his room to grab the lube his mom had made him buy without making eye contact once she’d found out that he was sleeping with Peggy.

Steve tugged his pants down so they hung around his thighs and started a fast pace; he wanted this to be over and done with quickly so he could go back to sleep and pretend like this had never happened. Pretend like this hadn’t been happening a minimum of three times a week since early April.

Really, the only thing that made this entire experience novel was the fact that this was the first time Steve’d had the dream with Bucky  _ right there _ , dead asleep and snoring so loudly that Steve was surprised he couldn’t hear Bucky right now in the bathroom over the grossly graphic noise of the wet slapping of his hand on himself. But no, his soft breaths and the wet sounds of the lotion were all Steve could hear, and he wasn’t about to stop just to try to listen harder. He wanted this over with because this wasn’t just humiliating; it was gross and sad and a million other awful things. Because Bucky was Steve’s best friend. And here Steve was, thumbing the head of his cock as he imagined how gorgeous and tangled Bucky’s hair had looked in his dream.

Steve couldn’t do this. He couldn’t jerk off to his best friend. He stilled his hand for the barest of moments before shoving it with images of Peggy and slogging forward. Her sucking hickeys on his hipbones the day after Steve had gotten captain. Them dry-humping in her bed after she’d won a debate tournament. The few, blissful moments of the dream when Steve had been sure that the person sucking him off had been Peggy and not fucking Bucky.

But then Peggy’s perfectly lacquered manicure shifted into Bucky’s huge, calloused hand wrapped around his hip. Her full lips, which had left lipstick marks on Steve’s cock more than once and had been central to Steve’s fantasies for years, blurred into Bucky’s slightly chapped ones, parted as he breathed hot and heavy onto the crux of Steve’s legs. Steve grabbed a tissue and bit his tongue to keep from shouting as he came just from envisioning Bucky gasping Steve’s name.

Steve gave himself the space of three deep breaths to come down from the aftershocks before wiping himself off with another tissue, tucking himself back into his pajamas, and flicking the lights off again. He needed to stop. In April, he’d been able to come just by thinking about Peggy. But as spring slipped into summer, Steve started slipping into coming exclusively while thinking about Bucky.

He wasn’t gay. It wasn’t like he was homophobic either, though, because he wasn’t. He’d punched three too many people in defense of their homophobic comments about others for anyone to think that was true. But Steve wasn’t gay. That just wasn’t him. He liked women. He liked tits. He liked watching Friends not because it was funny, because it wasn’t, but because he had a thing for Courtney Cox. It wasn’t like he jerked off thinking about David Schwimmer or something, too. Just Courtney Cox. Just women.

More than that, though, Steve had a  _ girlfriend _ . A real, living, breathing girlfriend whom he loved. Whom he had called every morning this summer because it was afternoon over there and Peggy wouldn’t have been busy. And fantasizing about Courtney Cox in the shower was one thing, but masturbating while thinking about a real, actual person whom Steve also knew and talked to constantly was bad. Worse than bad. It was a violation of some kind of moral code.

And, as Steve felt his way back to his room because his eyes weren’t adjusted back to the darkness, he felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest repeating the word “violation” until it wasn’t even a word anymore, just a collection of syllables that made Steve feel vaguely sick.

Bucky was still passed out when Steve got back. He’d flipped over onto his stomach and Steve could see the finely corded muscles in Bucky’s back flex smoothly as he inhaled and exhaled. His perky ass was also right up in Steve’s face. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. He needed to stop. This was  _ Bucky. _ This was the guy who’d made his own vomit come out his nose because he’d laughed while throwing up. This was a flesh-and-blood person, who was very much straight, very much Steve’s best friend, and  _ very much off-limits _ .

So Steve shifted his glance away and picked his way over Bucky and into his own bed, tugging the comforter over himself surreptitiously like that would help hide him from Bucky or something ridiculous like that.

The ridiculousness didn’t keep him from tugging the blankets over his head in shame after checking his phone and seeing he had a Snapchat from Peggy, though. The snap was just a selfie of her in some gorgeous heathered gray sweater, smiling softly, but it made Steve feel sick to his stomach with regret and disgust at himself.

There was also a text from her, a message just saying “Love you and miss you. Two more weeks!” It made Steve feel even sicker because it was true. There were two more weeks until Steve would see Peggy. Two more weeks until senior year started. Two more weeks for Steve to get rid of this fucking dream.

  
For the barest of seconds, Steve questioned whether he even wanted to get rid of the dream. It  _ was _ just a dream, after all. Completely harmless. It’s not like anyone would ever find out. It was probably fine. That thought made Steve hate himself so much that he didn’t even think to laugh when Bucky snored so loud that he startled himself awake.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient! Updates will still be slow since life is not conducive to writing, but should be more regular in a few weeks.

“That’ll kill you, you know,” Steve said absently, not even looking up at Bucky. He could tell just from the way Bucky’d gotten quiet that he’d dug a cigarette out of his pocket and was about to light it. In front of the fucking school building. As co-captain of the baseball team and treasurer of the student council. Because of course he was. Because that was Bucky, the guy who Steve could trust with everything from Steve’s first asthma attack to discreetly buying condoms for him: idiosyncratic.

“Eventually,” Bucky replied, just as absently, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

They were sprawled on the benches in front of the school, waiting for Peggy. Steve’s heart was beating out of control with excitement. It’d been months since he’d seen her. The venue wasn’t entirely perfect, since it was the first day of school and, with practice and classes and Bucky, he’d get absolutely zero alone time with her until their date on Wednesday, the one they’d had scheduled since their first attempt at Skype-sex, but at least he’d get to see her. Steve had missed her smell, and the way her body felt pressed on him, and how soft her hair was when Steve stroked it.

He had especially missed having wet dreams about Peggy instead of Bucky. Bucky, who was currently looking at videos of the fucking Kylie Jenner lip challenge and giggling wildly. Bucky, whom Steve had half-carried half-spotted into a second-story window at least half a dozen times. Bucky, who was Steve’s very straight best friend. He’d much rather dream about Peggy, who loved politics. Peggy, who had helped Steve limp through math class since they’d started dating. Peggy, who was the most gorgeous girl Steve’d ever seen. Seeing Peggy was just what Steve needed; he needed her to come back home and fuck him into next week so he could never ever have the stupid dream about Bucky sucking him off ever again.

At least the dream wasn’t a gigantic deal to anyone except Steve. The dream had the highest chance of making interactions between Steve and Bucky awkward, but it hadn’t really done so, at least not outwardly. They’d spent every free minute they had ever had together since as long as either could remember, because they were best friends, inseparable, and, thus, too close for Steve’s idiotic recurring dream to get between them. Of course, over the past few months since he’d started having the dream, Steve’d avoided eye contact a few more times than he’d ever had before, and shied away from Bucky’s friendly pats on the back more than he’d like, but Bucky hadn’t really picked up on it. At least, not that Steve could tell. They were still best friends. A stupid sex dream wasn’t gonna fuck that bond up.

Didn’t mean that Steve wanted the dream to keep fucking happening, though, because he didn’t. Steve would much rather dream about Peggy’s soft hands instead of Bucky’s rough ones. Bucky was a friend, in the least sexy sense of the word. And Peggy was everything more. Peggy was Steve’s girlfriend, in every possibly sexy sense of the word. It was gross to keep effectively fantasizing about Bucky.

But, despite Steve wanting it desperately, Peggy still wasn’t here. She was, according to her frantic texts to Steve not half an hour ago, running late because, having gotten in from Heathrow last night, she was jet-lagged out of her ass and had slept through her alarm. But she’d be here soon, so soon, and Steve would be able to hug her and kiss her and make stupid jokes to her. It would be perfect. For now, though, Steve was perfectly content to fuck around with Bucky and make fun of him for smoking cigarettes, the way they’d done since Bucky’d started smoking sophomore year.

Again, it could have been weird on Steve’s end, but after three months of going through it, Steve was a pro. He just followed Bucky’s lead, which inevitably was goofy and relaxed and friendly, because that was everything it had been since Bucky had become Steve’s best friend in their infancy. Steve would never let something as stupid as a reoccuring wet dream ruin that. And it was especially easy not to let it be weird when Bucky was doing something as stupid as giving himself cancer because smoking “looked cool.”

“You smell like shit all the time now,” Steve told him, falling into their old pattern of Bucky smoking and Steve telling him every reason it was bad. They’d been doing so long that it was almost easy; if pressed, Steve could probably fire off at least two dozen reasons that Bucky should quit, even while he was checking his phone for any new texts from Peggy telling him where she was like Steve was doing now. There was nothing; just Steve’s background of him and Peggy kissing on a Ferris wheel he’d taken last spring at a carnival. She had been wearing this yellow sundress, and had stolen Steve’s hoodie when night had fallen and she’d gotten cold. She’d looked adorable, and still did in the tiny version of herself on Steve’s background. Steve  _ loved _ her.

“Natasha doesn’t seem to mind my smell,” Bucky shot back.

Steve just rolled his eyes. Natasha had been Bucky’s on-again, off-again fuckbuddy since Bucky had been able to buy himself condoms, and she didn’t mind much of anything. Her low standards could be illustrated by the fact that she fucked anything that was human and had a cock. Walking in on her sucking Bucky’s dick in someone’s parents’ bedroom while he literally reeked of beer-and-tequila-induced vomit last year had proven how low her bar was more than enough for Steve.

“And where is she now?” Steve asked, still checking his phone.

“Fucking Clint Barton under the bleachers, probably,” Bucky muttered, rolling his eyes and letting his cigarette fall on the ground before crushing it with the toe of his sneaker.

Steve held back a laugh at Bucky’s expense, since Bucky was clearly pissed about it. But, objectively, it was, if not funny, at least ironic, seeing as they’d fucked in Bucky’s beat-up Corolla not even last weekend, and she’d already moved on. And it was even more ironic since Bucky had been so sure as to text Steve afterward that it’d stick this time and that she’d want, if not a relationship, then at least to fuck Bucky exclusively.

“See?” Steve said triumphantly, tucking his phone away with as much finality as he could. As much as Steve willed it not to be true, checking it obsessively wasn’t gonna make Peggy come any faster. “Clint hasn’t smoked a day in his life.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and elbowed Steve in the ribs. “That’s just what he wants you to think.”

Steve did laugh at that. Clint was a fucking mess; he’d been on the baseball team with Steve and Bucky since fucking Little League, and he had always been about as good a liar as he was a student: D+ average, just barely enough to stay eligible. If he did smoke, there would have been no way he would’ve been able to hide that from Steve, especially since Steve loved asking the coaches for sprinting drills whenever he felt Bucky had been smoking too much.

“Sure, Buck,” Steve said, laughing.

“Besides, Nat smokes. Why would she care if her fuckbuddy did it?” Bucky argued as he dug around in his pocket for his pack.

“Because Nat has standards,” Steve said firmly, smirking so Bucky would know it was a joke.

“Yep,” Bucky mumbled, rolling his eyes. He knew more than enough about Steve’s opinions on Natasha.

“Well, standards regarding smoking, apparently. Nothing on tequila vomit-breath, somehow, though,” Steve teased.

“It happened one time, and we were both fucking drunk,” Bucky said, flicking Steve with his thumb but still giggling.

“And it happened in Sam Wilson’s parents’ bedroom!” Steve retorted.

“You  _ wish _ Peggy would be up for that,” Bucky shot back, digging in his pocket, probably for his pack of cigarettes.

“I, for one, am glad that the person I sleep with has actual standards that pertain to something beyond her lover’s use of cigarettes.”

Bucky ignored him, flipping open the pack in order to pull out another cigarette and light it with only one hand. The other hand was occupied, seeing as it was being used to flip Steve the bird.

Steve just rolled his eyes and turned his eyes back to the parking lot. There was a red sedan that might’ve been Peggy’s, but the license plate was wrong. Steve frowned. Where  _ was _ she? There was only ten minutes before class started, and Peggy didn’t even have her schedule yet, which would make her even later since she’d have to go the attendance office and get it specially printed.

“Did you see the video of the pig lung they injected with the carcinogens found in cigarettes?” Steve asked Bucky to distract himself from missing Peggy. There was no point to missing her  _ now _ \-- he would see her in less than ten minutes, and she’d look beautiful, and they’d get to kiss. . . .

Steve must have missed her more than he’d thought he did, because the mere idea of that was causing an excited blush to rise to his cheeks. Steve glanced at Bucky, praying he wouldn’t notice Steve’s blush, but Bucky was just staring into the parking lot, in the middle of taking a drag. His cheeks were hollowed out, and Steve could almost imagine how Bucky looked in his dream. It made Steve feel sick all of a sudden, not with excited Peggy-centric nerves, but rather with disgust at himself, so he turned away and stubbornly pulled out his phone. Still no texts.

“Yeah, I saw the stupid video. How could I have avoided it? You made me watch it twenty fucking times until I told you that smoking was bad.” There was no spite in Bucky’s tone, just light teasing. The kind that Bucky’d been using to rib him with since they were kids.

“And what happened in the video?” Steve pressed, glancing at his phone one last time as his resolve crumbled embarrassingly quickly. Peggy was probably driving and couldn’t text. That was fine. That was good; she was being safe.

Bucky rolled his eyes in a way that would’ve been theatrical if not for the fact that Bucky, after a horrible experience playing Tree Number Two in the school play in second grade, was never, ever theatrical. “The lung didn’t inflate as much, and the blood oxygen was twenty percent lower than it should’ve been,” Bucky sighed. “Thanks for the PSA, Dad.”

“Anytime,” Steve replied easily.

Bucky suddenly stood up, almost startling Steve. He was shifting foot-to-foot, antsy. Steve could guess why; there were fewer than ten minutes until first period. “Any idea when Pegs is coming? I got PE first period, and I gotta change,” Bucky asked, shoving his backpack and baseball bag around his shoulders so sling them across his back with the weight relatively evenly distributed.

Steve could tell when Bucky wanted to run, and now was definitely one of those times. He kept tapping his foot and drumming his fingers on his backpack and brushing nonexistent hairs out of his eyes.

“Shoulda just worn your gym clothes to school, Buck,” Steve said, leaning back so he could make eye contact with Bucky without craning his neck.

“But then how would I look cute for you?” Bucky shot back.

Steve’s eyes temporarily widened. What did Bucky  _ mean _ by that? Did he know about the dream? Was he making fun of it?

“Just kidding, Steve-O. You’ll give yourself a gay-panic induced aneurysm,” Bucky said after a beat, his voice softer than it had been since the first time Natasha had dumped Bucky. His hands were up like he was showing Steve that he was unarmed. “You all good?”

Steve cleared his throat, maybe a little too obviously. Bucky didn’t know anything. They were just friends who liked to rib each other and maybe pushed it a little too far sometimes. “Yeah, I’m fine. You go ahead, Buck. See you in second?” Steve and Bucky’s schedules had aligned decently; they had every class except for two together, and Steve would have one of those two with Peggy, since there was only one section of Advanced Visual Art. It was a good schedule, especially for senior year, mostly because he had PE last period, so he wouldn’t even have to change in between school and practice.

“Yeah, man. See you,” Bucky said, stubbing out his cigarette and ruffling Steve’s hair as he ran up the steps into the school.

Steve rolled his eyes and flipped Bucky the bird as he walked away. Steve had worked hard to make sure his hair looked nice for Peggy, and now it was probably fucked. He couldn’t help but thinking about how fucked up dream-Bucky’s hair had gotten, all pressed up and tangled. Sex hair. Sex hair that Steve had caused.

Steve felt his stomach ache in retribution for his momentary lapse into thinking about the stupid dream, so he turned his attention back to the parking lot. Still no Peggy.

Steve  _ missed _ her; as much as Steve wanted to get rid of his fucking dream, he also just wanted his Pegs back. It’d been literal months since he’d gotten to see her, touch her, kiss her. Why did she have to be late today of all days?

“Boo!” A hand suddenly clamped down on Steve’s shoulder, and he jumped about three feet into the air, heart pumping out of his chest and racing so fast it was almost like an asthma attack but without the shortness of breath.

Steve whipped around, barely half a second from grabbing his bat out of his baseball bag and beaning the culprit of Steve’s startling so hard that they cried.

Well, until the voice spoke again: “Holy shit! I got you so good, Rogers!”

Steve turned toward the source of the voice, slowly putting his hands down from their fighting stance as the familiarity creeped in. It was Peggy’s voice. And there she was. In the flesh. Not over Facetime while she was in England. Not in sexts over Snapchat sent from her bathroom. Not in slow, crackly phone calls that Steve was shelling out an obscene amount of money to participate in. Not in England, but here in front of the school, whole and perfect and lovely.

Steve could feel something swell below and behind his breastbone, rising up to press against the back of Steve’s throat and the base of his skull. Steve swallowed slowly as he took her in.

She looked perfect. Her hair was loose around her face, and she was wearing Steve’s favorite pair of jeans on her and Steve’s Yankees hoodie. It was maybe three or four sizes too big on her, and hung halfway down her thighs, but she couldn’t have looked more perfect. “Peggy,” Steve said simply. There was nothing else to say. She was  _ here _ , and Steve could’ve cried with how happy that made him.

He stepped over to her, almost tripping over his feet in his eagerness, and wrapped his arms tight around her waist almost on instinct. She was still so small and soft and smelled so good. Like her perfume and soap, but also of something that was just  _ Peggy _ under all of it.

“You’re like an overgrown puppy dog, Steve. If I had known just going for a few months would make you act like this, I’d do it all the time,” Peggy teased into Steve’s shoulder.

“Mm-mm,” Steve hummed, shaking his head. “Can’t go like that for at least a few months.”

“Okay, Steve. It’s a big sacrifice, but I won’t.”

Steve shifted from just pressing his cheek to the crown of her head, and instead ducked down to kiss it. Her hair was soft and smooth and shiny despite having just gotten home less than twelve hours ago. Perfect.

“How’re you doing, baby?” Steve asked into her hair.

Peggy laughed against him. Steve could tell from the tone of it that it wasn’t because Steve had said something funny, but rather because she was emotional. That was okay; Steve was emotional, too. They loved each other, and they’d been separated for months. And beyond the emotion, Peggy’s laugh just felt good. Having it pressed up against him like this was a fantastic sound and feeling, like it was reverberating not from Peggy herself, but rather from the few gaps between them, like the laugh was shared between them instead of resonating from just Peggy. “I’m good. Tired. Jetlagged.”

“Of course you are,” Steve replied, not moving his nose out of her hair. “Missed you.”

“Missed you, too. You should let me go now so I can kiss you properly,” Peggy giggled.

As much as Steve would rather just hold her to his chest until he was more sure that this was really real, a kiss sounded pretty fucking good too, so he stepped back a fraction of an inch and bent down to press his lips to Peggy’s. She was warm and soft here, too, but even moreso. It was powerful and sweet and  _ perfect _ . He loved her, and she was back. They stayed like that, just pressed together, close and warm and present, until Peggy gently backed off her tiptoes so they could both breathe.

“You’re not allowed to go anywhere for that long ever again,” Steve mumbled, rubbing his hands on her biceps and just looking at her. Perfect. So perfect.

“I’ll try.”

“I love you, Pegs.”

“Love you too, Stevie.”

***

The whole day, Steve had been floating on air. Peggy was back, and she was still perfect and smart and amazing. They ended up having three classes together, and two of them with Bucky, too. It was so great. Steve and his two favorite people in the world. He had felt a little apprehensive with the dream and everything, but it had been stunningly, perfectly normal. Steve wouldn’t have the dream tonight. How could he? He’d had something much better than a dream-Bucky pressed to his side the entire day.

Steve was so in love that he’d had trouble focusing on anything but Peggy in their classes, and had been scolded at least twice. Not like it mattered -- he was going somewhere on a baseball scholarship, and could afford to focus solely on Peggy for the whole year as long as he made sure that he was passing the whole time. But practice was a different story; he had to focus, both as co-captain and as someone who needed baseball to go anywhere outside of his hometown. At least it was markedly easier to focus than it was in class, since Peggy was now a whole hundred feet away on the bleachers watching him and, to boot, it was just really hard to feel anything but fucking tired when Steve was on his fourteenth lap around the field.

Bucky was with Steve -- he always was during practice, especially since they were co-captains. It was part of the job description. He was lagging behind by a quarter of a lap, though, which Steve would mock him mercilessly for the next time Bucky tried to claim smoking didn’t affect his athletics. Bucky was sweating through his fucking shirt too, since the August heat combined with New York humidity wasn’t doing anyone any favors. Steve was a little ripe, but nothing bad, which he chose to chalk up to the fact that he never smoked rather than the fact that he had taken an extra puff of his inhaler in the vain hope that he’d impress Peggy. 

Regardless of the reason, though, Bucky was lagging behind. It was only right for Steve to turn around and start running backwards just to piss Bucky off. “That the best you got, Barnes?!”

Bucky flipped him off without even looking up and just started going faster, nearly beating Steve for the fifteenth and final lap.

“Rogers!” Bucky called as he stumbled to a stop next to Steve at the first base line, both grinning at the fact that the worst part of practice was over, and that they’d both beaten the entire rest of the varsity squad.

“Hey,” Steve said, panting and wiping his sweat on the back of his arm.

“What are you doing Friday? Tara’s having a party at the Lakehouse, and she told me I should bring a friend.”

The Lakehouse meant drinking, and a lot of it. Steve wouldn’t imbibe, at least not during the season, but he knew Bucky would. And that meant Bucky would need someone he trusted to make sure he didn’t choke on his vomit. “Am I just gonna be babysitting?” Steve teased. He knew he would be, but he’d go, anyway, if no one else Bucky trusted was going. (Natasha didn’t count as someone Bucky trusted in Steve’s book.) That was what best friendship was, after all.

“Not explicitly,” Bucky said brightly, stretching out his shoulders as he reached his arms skyward. “You could drink, too, you know.”

“I’m not gonna do that, Buck. Who knows when scouts’ll be visiting? If I’m hungover, I’m fucked.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. He was in baseball for fun, but for Steve, it was his ticket to a steady income. He didn’t have enough money for college, seeing as he lived in a single-parent and single-income home, and trade school had never fit with him. Baseball was his meal ticket.

“Fuck, grandpa, fine,” Bucky sighed, rolling his eyes. “So, are you gonna come?”

Steve tried to hold back a laugh at Bucky’s tenacity; the kid was like a dog with a bone when he wanted Steve to do something Steve didn’t want to do. “I gotta ask Pegs. We haven’t had, um, alone time since fucking June,” Steve excused lamely. In reality, Peggy had already made sure her parents were going to be out Wednesday night, and they were going to fuck until Steve couldn’t remember his own name, much less a stupid fucking dream about Bucky. On Friday, he was planning to collapse onto his couch and eat chips until he passed out, but telling Bucky that would mean that Bucky would make him go, regardless of whether he was needed as a babysitter or not. Peggy was a good excuse to avoid being peer-pressured into a party where everyone was having more fun than Steve.

“Bring her. There’ll be a spare bedroom or two if you need ‘alone time,’” Bucky said quickly, taking great care to make sure that Steve noticed his air quotes.

Bucky looked at Steve then. His eyes were a soft blue, matching his sweat-soaked T-shirt, and his hair, thrown back in a ponytail, was coming loose and sticking to his forehead. He looked like a mess, but Steve couldn’t help but think back to the dream, and how sweaty Bucky’d been then. Steve shook his head angrily. He needed to stop this. “Buck, I don’t know. I’d have to ask Peggy.” Good solution, Rogers — blame it on your perfect, innocent girlfriend who never deserves to have to cover for your own laziness.

“I’ll ask her,” Bucky said as they began walking to the dugout, both having to duck down to get into the cement structure without beaning themselves.

“Hey, Peggy!” Bucky screamed to the bleachers as he leaned out the back of the dugout. “Wanna come to the Lakehouse on Friday?! Steve’ll be there if you are!”

“Sure!” Peggy replied happily. Steve rolled his eyes. At least if Steve was there, he could be sure that Bucky wouldn’t get hit by a car on his way home or something.

“So, Friday?” Bucky asked gleefully. “The girlfriend’s down.”

Steve rolled his eyes. Even if he would be babysitting, at least Peggy and Bucky would both be there. Both be drunk off their asses, but at least there.

“Fine, Buck. But you gotta remember to lock the door if you decide to throw up all over yourself and then fuck Natasha.”

Bucky cackled as he dug his water bottle out of his bag and took a long pull. “Whatever you say, Stevie.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next chapter will hopefully be up in two-three weeks.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am incredibly sorry for the wait for this chapter. Life was stressful, I was blocked, and, frankly, I lost a lot of motivation. However, I'm getting back in the groove and should be more regular from here on out. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> The first part of this chapter is a series of vignettes to help both you and me get back in the groove of this story as well as add a little more context to the coming chapters.
> 
> Enjoy and thank you so, so much for reading!

Steve woke up shivering at two in the morning on Tuesday. He was hard and sweating, and, worst of all, he had a clear line of sight into his mother’s room. In which the light was still on. In which some late-night radio show for insomniacs or semi-truck drivers or people working the graveyard shift was playing just loud enough for Steve to make out the sound of quiet voices. It was all Steve could do to pray to whatever deity was listening that she wasn’t awake because Steve had nocturnally moaned loud enough to wake her. Suddenly, Steve ran even colder as he realized his mother might have already  _ been _ awake when he’d had the dream. Jesus, was the radio loud enough to drown out any sounds he might have made? It was so quiet, but maybe he’d been quiet, too. . . .

That was doubtful, though. Because he had been dreaming about Bucky. Again.

It felt like he’d been punched in the stomach, or the face, or the small of his back. Not in the crotch, though. He was decidedly too hard to feel like he’d been punched there. Steve willed it to go away. He tried to think of insects, think of that time Peggy’s dad had walked in on them, well, in the middle of it, think of baseball. Except baseball made him think of Bucky’s sweaty shirt at practice earlier that day and the way he’d been nearly that sweaty in the dream. . . .

Steve shook his head vigorously, willing his fucking brain to stop getting itself, and himself by extension, off to Steve’s own fucking best friend. It was weird, and  _ wrong _ . Bucky was Steve’s best fucking friend. Steve couldn’t jerk off to him, or get turned on by him. It was taking advantage of Bucky; Bucky just wanted to be Steve’s friend, and instead Steve was abusing that trust by whacking off to him. 

Steve’s boner wasn’t fucking going anywhere either, though. He willed his mom to flick off the light so he could pad silently to the bathroom and take care of the problem, but it stayed steadily on. He couldn’t even just get up and shut his door, because then she’d assume a draft had done it and walk over to open it -- sleeping with the door closed meant that there wasn’t enough fresh air in the room, which meant that Steve would almost certainly get an asthma attack. Steve’s mom would always open it. She’d done it since Steve was a kid. She might even come in to kiss his head or something like he was five. Then she’d hear him whimpering Bucky’s name. . . .

No. He couldn’t fucking close the door. Steve also couldn’t go to the bathroom -- he would have to pass her room to get there and he was tenting his pants so badly that if his mom even caught a glance out of the corner of her eye she would think he’d grown a third fucking leg.

He could just try to do it just under his covers without closing the door like he was thirteen again and had no concept of privacy, but having so little barrier between his dick and his fucking mother was horrifying to him. Really, he just needed to  _ stop _ , before it was weird and gross and wrong. Or, more weird and gross and wrong than it already was.

So Steve rolled over onto his stomach, willing himself to not hump the fucking mattress. He just needed to ignore the boner. It would go away eventually.

***

Tuesday evening before bed, Steve did everything short of fucking putting an ice pack on his groin to keep himself from having the fucking Bucky dream. (Not the fucking-Bucky dream, because they weren’t actually  _ fucking  _ per se, but rather the idiotic and disgusting Bucky dream.) Steve’d doused his head in freezing water before getting into his least sexy pair of pajamas (a white T-shirt with yellowing armpits over a pair of Mets boxers one of his mom’s old boyfriends had gotten him for Christmas, since he apparently didn’t get that Steve hated the Mets almost as much as he hated his stupid Bucky dream). Steve had watched at least three Youtube videos on the eating habits of grasshoppers after dinner, and he had then read his fucking AP US history textbook until he’d nodded off with a chapter about the pilgrims stuck to his cheek. 

None of that stopped him from waking up at four in the morning still feeling the phantom press of Bucky’s lips on his own, though. He didn’t know what to do. He was so hard, yet he felt all gritty and dirty on the inside, like a McDonald’s fry someone had dropped in their car who-knows-how long ago and had found still in perfect condition eons later, seemingly untouched.

Pushing the poetry of McDonald’s fries aside, Steve fluffed his pillow and tried to fall back asleep. It was hopeless. He was sweaty and he couldn’t shake the image of dream-Bucky somehow managing to smirk around Steve’s cock. Steve reached over to his bedside table and grabbed his phone -- he might as well find some fucking porn if he was this fucking hard. But once he grabbed his phone, he saw that he still had the goodnight text from Peggy from the previous night in his notification center: “Love you, baby. See you tomorrow!”

The whole thing made Steve sick to his stomach. Here he was, about to jerk off because of a dream about someone who wasn’t his fucking perfect girlfriend, and yet Peggy, the girlfriend in question, was fast asleep, probably dreaming of Steve.

Steve swallowed the sour taste in his mouth, shut his phone all the way off so there was no way any potential texts from Peggy could come through, and rolled onto his side, curling around himself.

At least all the shame had made his boner go down.

***

Finally, Steve was able to sleep through the night on Wednesday. It was easier to, especially since he’d had his lap and arms and mouth full of Peggy less than an hour previous to falling asleep.

It hadn’t been weird when he’d fucked Peggy, and Steve was eternally grateful for that. She was perfectly sweet like always, and, for what felt like the first time in months, Bucky had been the last fucking thing on Steve’s mind.

And, if on Thursday morning, Steve woke with a Bucky-dream-induced problem that he’d had to take care of in the shower before school, at least he came thinking about Peggy the previous evening and not the idiotic dream about Bucky.

***

Steve was determined to not let the progress he’d made Wednesday night into Thursday lapse. He was up at four thirty Friday morning, pulling on his running gear and texting his mom about his route so she didn’t call the cops when she woke up and found his bed to be empty.

As soon as Steve managed to get out of the house and find a pace, he immediately felt a hundred times better than he had any night since he’d started having the Bucky dream back in June. He was working too hard to get a boner. He was in public so there’d be no way he could jerk off without being arrested. It was perfect. Plus, Steve would be able to get in at least ten miles before school, which would be crucial, seeing as the first game in the fall baseball season was in exactly a week, so he needed the conditioning.

Steve may have narrowly avoided an asthma attack, but at least he hadn’t fucking jerked off.

***

Finally, blissfully, Friday night rolled around.

It felt  _ so _ good to be out of his head and in a party atmosphere. In between school and practice and trying to keep himself from jerking off to Bucky, Steve hadn’t had a real chance to just breathe since last week. Even his relatively peaceful run that morning had been consumed by marathon thoughts of  _ don’t jerk off, don’t jerk off, he’s your friend, don’t jerk off. _ It was nice to stretch out on some lounge chairs by the lake and laugh at Bucky trying to convince people to do body shots with him. It was nice to not think for a minute.

Of course, Steve would eventually have to worry about babysitting someone (probably Bucky). No one else shared Steve’s precautions about drinking, after all. They didn’t have to worry about getting athletic scholarships despite asthma, flat feet, and a shitty spine. Even Bucky, who, after Steve, was the second-most-likely member of the baseball team to be recruited by a Division One school, was one of the heaviest drinkers Steve knew.

Bucky had been getting drunk at least once a week since he’d had the means to, and even Peggy always drank socially. She was lightly tipsy tonight, giggling the way she did when she had drunk too much as she circulated around the Lakehouse to people she hadn’t had the chance to catch up with since June. She was cute when she was tipsy; she’d drape herself over Steve and kiss his ear and was somehow became more killer at beer pong the drunker she got.

Steve loved her so much. Just getting to be around her made his annoyance at having to babysit lessen somewhat. 

“Babe, just loosen up! You can fuck me after!” Bucky’s sudden gruff shout directed Steve’s attention away from Peggy and straight to him. Bucky was at the end of the porch, pouring himself some Jack Daniels as he unsuccessfully tried to flirt with some poor sophomore with a neon pink bikini who apparently was not very much into the idea of doing body shots with Bucky.

“Ignore him. He gets loud when he’s drunk,” Steve supplied helpfully to the sophomore.

The girl nodded thankfully at Steve and retreated back toward the house proper instead of lounging on the porch like Steve and Bucky were. Bucky started to follow her, but stopped at Steve’s Adirondack chair and leaned back against the porch railing. He looked nice tonight; there was a soft breeze making his hair tousle slightly, and he was wearing a stupidly tight black T-shirt.

Steve shook his head stubbornly. Bucky was, as he should be, a non-sexual being in Steve’s mind.

“Buck, keep it in your pants,” Steve mumbled, as much to himself as to Bucky, while he cracked the seal on a can of Sprite. “Not everyone always wants to have sex with you.”

The words were out of Steve’s mouth before he could consider the possible implications. He waited, tense, for Bucky’s smirk to morph into a frown and for Bucky to call him gross or weird or something, but instead Bucky just rolled his eyes.

“Tell that to everyone who’s about to do body shots with me,” Bucky said smugly, chugging his shot.

“No one is, Buck,” Steve laughed, dream utterly forgotten in the face of Bucky’s brashness.

“I have rows of girls lined up, Steve. Rows! People  _ wish _ they were doing body shots with me every single waking moment of their lives. I work every day for these abs, Steve, and,  _ thusly,  _ people wanna lick salt off of said abs! It’s simple psychology, Rogers. . . .”

Steve tuned Bucky’s self-important, faux-academic rant out in favor of staring out over the balcony and onto the lake and the New York skyline far off in the distance. The sun was getting low over the lake, and a soft late-summer breeze was rifling its fingers through Steve’s hair. It should have felt picturesque, but something wasn’t sitting well in Steve’s gut. He felt uncomfortable suddenly, even though he shouldn’t have. After all, he was at a nice party with his girlfriend less than a hundred feet away and his best friend being his usual lovably idiotic self while pouring himself more alcohol than was recommended for anyone, least of all someone underage. It should have been fun.

But the discomfort was sitting low in his gut like he had the stomach flu or something, not quite roiling enough to make him worried that he was going to vomit, but not quiet either. Instead it was dark and coiled, almost like the adrenaline Steve got before going up to bat. But this was also too subtle to be adrenaline. Steve brushed a hand through his hair and sat up a little straighter, hoping that if he adjusted, the feeling would leave, but it was still there. It almost felt like when he’d gotten in his first fight with Peggy back in sophomore year. He couldn’t remember what the fight was even about, just the slightly sluggish,  _ wrong _ feeling in the pit of his stomach.

His palms were suddenly sweaty on top of the stomach feeling, and he wiped them surreptitiously on the sides of his board shorts. Luckily, Bucky was still on his tirade about how doing body shots with him could probably lead to the cure for cancer or something and didn’t seem to notice.

“Steve? Are you even listening?” Bucky suddenly asked.

“Yeah. I’m listening.”

“Yeah? What diseases do body shots with me cure?” Bucky asked, crossing his arms and smirking smugly. Steve would have rolled his eyes, but the smirk reminded Steve of his dream and suddenly he didn’t just feel uncomfortable, but straight-up sick.

“Steve? Are you okay? You’re a little green.” Bucky’s tone and smirk, thankfully, relaxed in to concern as he looked at Steve.

“Fine. A little worried about the game next week. This is the most important season of my whole life.” It wasn’t  _ not _ a lie. Steve  _ was _ worried about the game. It just wasn’t the reason he felt sick.

“You’ve been saying that since we were in Little League. What’s really up, Rogers?”

“Just the game.” Steve sat up a little straighter and smiled thinly at Bucky. Bucky could always tell if it Steve’s smile was fake -- you can’t be friends with someone for seventeen years without being able to figure out when they’re lying -- but Steve wanted to try anyway, if only to set his own mind at ease.

Bucky paused for a moment, his eyes scanning over Steve’s tense smile and stiff posture where seconds before the smile had been easy and the posture relaxed. Bucky’s smile wavered, too, for a quick second before it returned in spades. “Okay. Maybe you just need a drink,” Bucky finally said as firmly as one could while half-drunk. Bucky bent down and pressed the half-empty bottle of Jack into Steve’s hand.

“Bucky, I’m not drinking. Who would babysit you? Besides, there might be scouts at practice tomorrow,” Steve said mulishly, placing the bottle on the floor next to his chair.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I don’t need babysitting. And the scouts? What’re they gonna see? That there’s an incredibly talented athlete who could probably carry the whole team to a state championship if he decided to,” Bucky teased, picking the bottle back up and taking a healthy swig.

“Buck,” Steve mumbled, fighting the blush creeping up his neck. He was always a blusher, and it pissed him off more than anything else, barring the Mets beating the Yankees. “I can’t just coast this year. I need to end up at a good school and get a scholarship or something.”

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. He’d heard Steve’s anxious rants about college countless times. “Doesn’t mean you can’t have fun once or twice, though.”

“I’ll give myself alcohol poisoning ten times over after the season’s done, okay?” Steve said, sounding petulant even to himself. “That good?”

Bucky swallowed and drummed his fingers on the neck of the bottle. “That’s great, but it doesn’t change the fact that you need to loosen up now. You look like you walked in on Clint in the showers.”

Steve laughed lightly and shook his head. He’d done that exactly once, and now always yelled to announce his presence before entering the showers, no matter how fucking tired and sore he was. “Okay, point taken. What do you suggest I do for that?  _ Other _ than drink!”

“You could always fuck Peggy,” Bucky teased.

“I’m not fucking her at someone else’s house, Barnes,” Steve said, finishing his Sprite and setting the empty can down. “That’s your move.”

Bucky flipped him the bird good-naturedly before continuing, “Hmm. What to do, what to do?” Bucky sardonically tapped his index finger against his chin. “Ooh, I know! You could do body shots with me!”

“Buck,” Steve groaned.

“People can do them off of you so you don’t have to drink, you know. It’s not like you can absorb alcohol through your belly button or something.” Bucky’s face was triumphant like he just hit a homer after acing all his finals.

“You think Peggy would be into that?” Steve said, leaning back and cupping his chin in his hands.

“Don’t do that skeptical eyebrow thing, Rogers,” Bucky yelled. “You know it makes me nervous.”

Steve hadn’t even realized he was doing it, but he couldn’t complain if it was making Bucky reconsider his mission to make Steve do body shots. “You never answered my question,” Steve pressed.

“You can do body shots off of Peggy! With, like, lemonade, or something.” 

“You’re a regular genius, Barnes,” Steve said, wiggling his skeptical eyebrow so Bucky would know he was fucking around. 

“I know,” Bucky boasted, suddenly wedging himself onto the arm of Steve’s lounge chair and wrapping his arm around Steve’s shoulders and winding up very, very much in Steve’s personal space.

He smelled like sunscreen and shampoo and a little undercurrent of cigarettes. Steve wanted to wrinkle his nose at the cigarettes, but Bucky was laughing and they were watching the slow sunset together, and Steve couldn’t help but think that having Bucky’s side pressed to him, even through a T-shirt, felt pretty damn nice.

Steve shook his head. Bucky was his  _ friend. _ His too-horny, early-stage alcoholic, rambunctious  _ friend. Best _ friend. It was gross to think about Bucky in any way other than that. It was gross to appreciate the lines of Bucky’s biceps as they disappeared into his T-shirt. It was gross to stare at the dimples on his back when Bucky lifted his arms and his shirt rode up. It was gross to smell Bucky’s deodorant and start to feel a little antsy.

It had been easy to forget the dream when they’d just been making fun of each other and talking like they’d done since before either could walk, but now the dream was ever-present and so uncomfortable that Steve felt that awful tugging in the pit of his stomach again.

Steve stood up suddenly, causing Bucky to lose his balance and fall to his feet a little too hard to probably be strictly comfortable. “We doing this or what?” Steve said, striding into the house to find Peggy.

It wasn’t like he really wanted to do lemonade body shots, but he definitely wanted an excuse to get Bucky to stop pressing their sides together. Steve knew Bucky didn’t mean anything by it; they were friends, and Bucky had always been somewhat of a touchy guy, anyway. Yet Steve had shoved him off, and it made him feel sick. It figured. It never felt nice to be dismissive to your best friend in the whole world.

The tug in Steve’s gut got worse as found Peggy sitting on the island in the kitchen drinking a fruity IPA, since she was kind of a beer snob, and talking to Natasha. He resolutely ignored the tug, though, and wrapped an arm around her waist. She fit perfectly, just like she always did, because she was Peggy and he was Steve. They were always supposed to fit together.

“Hey, baby,” Steve said, ducking down to kiss her. It was quick and chaste, but it still made the tug lessen somewhat. The tug was probably just guilt, anyway, since he’d been, despite his best efforts, effectively fantasizing about someone who was not her.

“Hey, stranger,” Peggy said back, leaning into his side. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Not much-” Steve began before Bucky’s boisterous giggle cut him off.

“We’re gonna do body shots! You down?”

Steve rolled his eyes. Bucky was never one for tact.

“Hell fuckin’ yeah! Let me get my top off,” Natasha crowed. Of course she was going to do this. Natasha, as evidenced by whom she was willing to fuck under the bleachers during lunch, had no standards. Especially when it came to Bucky. They were endlessly horny for each other, much to Steve’s chagrin.

Steve gave a sidelong glance at Bucky, half-expecting his eyes to pop out of his head like he was a cartoon character at the mere idea of doing body shots with Nat. She was already dressed in a crop top, a tiny black miniskirt, and heels tall enough that she came up to Steve’s chin instead of his chest. Steve wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Bucky was drooling at that very moment. Instead, Bucky seemed intently focused on the bottles of liquor, probably looking for lemonade for Steve.

“Sweetheart,” Peggy said softly, bringing Steve back to their contact and away from Bucky’s fucked love life, “I thought you weren’t drinking.” Her voice was so soft that only Steve could hear her. Steve appreciated how quiet she was, the way that she was taking care to make sure no one heard and potentially made fun of Steve for not imbibing. She reached her hand up and brushed Steve’s cheek with her thumb. Her hand was nice and warm, and Steve resisted the urge to kiss her wrist, mostly because he knew that would make Bucky giggle like a five year old and he wanted to avoid that at all costs.

“I’m not. I think I might use lemonade or something,” Steve whispered, voice just as soft.

“Okay, honey,” Peggy said, kissing Steve one more time before hopping off the counter. “Let’s do this shit, Barnes!”

Bucky giggled and rifled through the counters piled with alcohol to find his favorite kind of tequila and some lemonade for Steve.

Steve was starting to blush already, and it only got worse once Nat started shedding her top, leaving her in a hot pink bra that Steve had seen on Bucky’s mess of a bedroom floor at least twice before.

Steve glanced at Bucky, hoping to tease him for whatever stupid expression he was probably making. Bucky was still looking through the liquor, though. “Stevie, is Sprite okay? I can’t find lemonade,” Bucky announced without turning around.

“You’re not fucking putting Sprite in my belly button, Barnes,” Natasha grumbled, jumping lightly onto the counter and crossing her legs at the knee.

“Nat, it’s for Steve. Won’t you sacrifice your comfort momentarily for a man’s first body shot?” Bucky said, spinning to face Natasha and leaning on the counter with his arms crossed. Steve very consciously looked at Peggy instead of Bucky’s forearms. She was staring at Natasha, and her eyes looked so soft and round that Steve’s sides ached with want and attraction.

“I just got a belly button piercing, Bucky! I don’t want it to get infected,” Natasha said, drumming her acrylic nails on her chin.

“And alcohol wouldn’t infect it?” Bucky said, raising an eyebrow.

“Alcohol’s sterile!”

“Bullshit,” Bucky teased.

“At least it’s not carbonated,” Natasha spat back.

“Pussy,” Bucky said, smirking wickedly. Steve knew both Bucky and Natasha were masters at pushing each other’s buttons, and it was stupidly entertaining to watch, like  _ The Bachelor, _ or something _ . _ Or, you know, a car crash.

“If I’m such a pussy, why don’t you do it?” Nat shot back. “Or would that threaten your fragile heterosexual masculinity?”

Nat’s comment made Steve run cold. Did she know something? Was she trying to goad Steve? “If I’m doing body shots, I’m doing them with my fucking girlfriend. Sorry, Nat,” Steve said hurriedly to dissuade any negative connotation.

He half-expected Natasha to drag him into her and Bucky’s spat, but instead she just laughed. “Yeah, okay, Rogers. That’s fair.”

Steve looked to Bucky, assuming that he’d make another snide remark, but he was quiet, staring at Natasha’s discarded crop top (probably imagining if she’d let him fuck her while she wore it).

“Peggy, would  _ you _ put Sprite in your belly button for sweet ole Stevie?” Natasha said, turning her attention to Peggy.

Peggy smiled and leaned into Steve’s side. She smelled so good, and felt just right. God, Steve loved her.

“That sounds painful, Bucky, so no, thanks. Sorry, Steve,” Peggy said, standing on tiptoe so she could kiss Steve’s jaw.

“That’s okay, babe.” Steve bent down and met her lips. They were soft and tasted a little like her beer. Perfect.

“Okay, well, if we’re not doing body shots, we could always do something more fun,” Natasha announced as Steve broke the kiss. She sidled up to Bucky and wrapped her arms around his waist.

“And what’s that?” Bucky said, looking down at her with what Steve recognized as the look he used when he was trying to be his most seductive.

Nat mumbled something unintelligible into Bucky’s chin, and he flushed pink. It took a lot to make Bucky blush -- Steve was almost impressed.

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky said, any potential for body shots apparently completely forgotten in favor of getting to fuck Natasha in some bathroom.

“Buck? No body shots?” Steve called, partially because he didn’t want his lack of body shots to impede Bucky’s want for them, and partially because he didn’t want Bucky to make a dumbass decision about some new sex position and then pull a muscle and get taken out of commission for the whole season. 

“In a minute, Stevie,” Bucky replied, not breaking eye contact with Natasha as they did some weird, backwards frogmarch toward the stairs.

Steve watched him go, finding that the tugging in his gut was getting worse with every step.

“What the fuck is Nat putting in his drinks?” Peggy said, laughing as she drank more of her beer.

“What do you mean? You think Nat roofied him?!” Steve asked, incredulous. If Bucky was getting hurt, Steve needed to get him out of there  _ now. _ It was his job as both permanent best friend and temporary babysitter.

“No, doofus. I just don’t get how they’re practically attached at the genitals. Both of them deserve someone who wants  _ them, _ not just their respective dick and pussy, you know?” Peggy said, hopping back up on the counter.

Steve sighed in relief. Bucky’s safety was one of Steve’s top priorities. That’s what best friends did -- they looked out for each other. “Well, it’s not like either of them really like each other that much. They’re just horny and attracted to each other.”

“Still. They deserve someone who really likes them,” Peggy said thoughtfully. “They’re good people, you know.”

“I mean, sure, but there’s nothing wrong with fucking someone consensually if you’re horny,” Steve said, sidling up next to Peggy and wrapping his arm around her. She leaned her head against Steve’s shoulder and Steve kissed the top of her head. It was nice. The kitchen was largely insulated from the rowdiest parts of the party, and the sunset was still visible through the big sliding glass doors.

“Of course not. But isn’t it better when you like the person you’re fucking? I mean, fucking you is practically magical,” Peggy said, nuzzling Steve’s shoulder.

Steve blushed lightly. It  _ was _ magical. And Bucky  _ had _ said he needed to calm down. “You wanna get out of here, honey? Your parents are out tonight, yeah?”

Peggy smiled softly and nodded. “Sure. I just need to say goodbye to some people. You,” she paused to press a kiss to Steve’s cheek, “wait right here.”

Steve nodded and pulled out his phone. He had a text from his mom and a few Twitter and Instagram notifications. He’d posted a shirtless pic after his run that morning, and half the senior class was commenting something stupid. He replied to a few, liked a few more, and was about to go find Peggy when he heard a scream from upstairs.

Steve jumped at first. The scream was human, and piercing, and definitely female. It was the scream you let out when you slipped down the stairs in the dark after drinking too much, or when someone had hit you. It was the scream of someone taking advantage of you. Something bad was happening.

Steve immediately shoved his phone in his pocket and sprinted up the stairs. There was no way in hell that he was gonna be complicit in some girl’s rape or something. He was pretty built -- he could probably keep whoever was in trouble from getting hurt. Or, at least getting hurt worse. 

Steve skidded to a stop at the top of the landing and glanced at the doors in the upstairs hallway. There were at least half a dozen doors, all closed; there wouldn’t be time for Steve to check every one, especially if they were locked.

As much as he felt the need to, Steve couldn’t panic. He needed to help whoever was getting hurt. He could probably get a few doors open if he shoved them; he had plenty of muscle and a whole lot of adrenaline, to boot. But there still wasn’t time.

Thankfully, another shriek in the same voice sounded from the bedroom on the left, closest to the stairs. Steve ran over shoulder-first, ready to break the door down. He barely dodged getting hit in the face and breaking his nose (again) when the door suddenly swung open violently. There was more screaming, louder now that it wasn’t muffled by the door, and Steve had to resist the urge to clap his hands over his ears. 

“Fuck you, Barnes!”

Natasha was storming out of the bedroom. Her skirt was half-unzipped and she was clutching her shoes in her hands. Her makeup was smudged, and tears were running down her face. She almost ran into Steve, but then she stopped and looked up at him.

Steve had never seen anger like that from her before. She was seething, her green eyes narrowed into slits and her nostrils flaring dramatically. If she, after Peggy, hadn’t been the second-prettiest woman Steve had ever seen, she would have looked almost ugly. As it was, she looked feral and bitter, like the last burning coal in a fire you’ve poured water on ten times over.

“Your damsel in distress is in the bedroom, fuckhead,” she spat, shoving Steve without any weight before racing down the stairs.

Steve wasn’t even able to process her comment. He was too surprised by the venom in her voice. She had never spoken to Steve that way ever before. And Bucky and her had only been upstairs for maybe ten minutes. What had  _ happened?! _

Steve finally looked into the bedroom. Bucky was standing hunched-over by the food of the still-made bed, his eyes wide and round and scared-looking and his hands cupped over his nose.

“Buck?” Steve asked.

“Hi,” Bucky said. His voice was so nasal that it would have been comical if Bucky didn’t otherwise look like he was in a world of pain.

“What happened? I heard screaming.”

“Nat fucking punched me,” Bucky mumbled. Steve glanced over the rest of him, looking for further damage. Besides the nose, Bucky appeared, well, debauched. He had little flushes that Steve knew would bruise into hickeys littering his collarbones, his hair was tangled and messy, he had lines up his sides that Steve was pretty sure matched Natasha’s acrylics, and his lips were swollen. Not to mention that there were more flushes along his iliac furrow leading into his faded blue boxer-briefs.

Steve looked away quickly, ignoring the blush that was heating his face and his cock. Bucky, other than his face, looked  _ good.  _ Steve’s mind, probably still addled from the dream, was swirling. But his best friend was obviously hurt, and that was a more pressing matter than Steve’s weird sex dreams.

Steve looked at Bucky more carefully now, and saw that his hands were dripping blood, and, between Bucky’s fingers, some was leaking down his chin.

“Shit! Are you okay?!” Steve cried, startled by the sight of blood. He was no stranger to it, but it was weird seeing Bucky’s face practically painted with it. It was normally the other way around, with Steve’s face bloody, for one, and, for two, there was an impressive amount of blood for any one nose to conjure up.

“Nat fucking punched me,” Bucky repeated.

Steve paused, waiting for more explanation, or maybe more signs of a concussion, but none came. Bucky was just staring at the carpet under his feet, not moving except for the shallow way his chest was heaving.

“Is it broken?” Steve finally mumbled after nearly a minute of continuous silence.

“I think so. I don’t fucking know.” Bucky’s hands left his nose for a moment to lean down and grab his clothes. Steve couldn’t help the gasp that let itself out of his mouth. Bucky’s nose was crooked, his eyes were already beginning to purple, and he had a smear of blood from nose to neck. Bucky winced as he pulled the neck of his shirt over his face, and it made the pit of Steve’s stomach squeeze.

“Fuck, Bucky,” Steve breathed.

“I know, man. Fucking hurts.”

“ _ Nat _ did that?!” Nat was five foot even, and skinny, and Bucky was no small guy. What the fuck kinda left hook was she packing?

Bucky didn’t answer Steve, though, just buttoned up his jeans.

“Lemme take you to my house,” Steve said once it was clear Bucky wasn’t going to respond. “My mom isn’t working tonight. She could fix you up real good.” It was natural to offer; they were best friends. This is what best friends did.

“Sure. Nurse Rogers will always be better than my little sister with an ice pack.” Bucky tugged on his Vans and followed Steve out the bedroom door, still cupping his nose.

“At least Becca cares,” Steve offered lamely, trying to get over his initial shock as he hurriedly texted Peggy to cancel their plans. He felt a little bad, but his best friend was hurt. This was important.

And as they drove back to Steve’s place, even though Bucky was hurt and silent and probably going to need to get his nose redone professionally, Steve noticed that the tug in his gut was gone.


	4. Chapter Four

“Jesus, Bucky, what’d you  _ do?” _ Steve’s mom was dabbing at the blood still running out of Bucky’s nose from Nat’s punch nearly an hour ago while Bucky held an ice pack to the bridge of it. Even though Bucky was still in bad shape, he was at least better than he’d been in the car. The whole ride home, Bucky had held old napkins up to his face from Steve’s car’s glovebox to try to fruitlessly staunch the flow of blood, and he’d made Steve blast the AC while Bucky stuck his nose near it to attempt to soothe the ache.

Getting Bucky up out of the car and up to the fourth-floor walk-up that was Steve’s home had been an adventure in and of itself. Bucky had spat blood on at least three different places on the cement stairwell and Steve was going to have to go back down later and mop it up so the super wouldn’t incur a cleaning charge on their monthly bill. Bucky was in pain, and still pretty drunk. Steve had half-expected him to flirt with Steve’s mom since Bucky was such a horny drunk.

But they’d made it here. They were in Steve’s kitchen, the radio droning unintelligibly in the background. Bucky was sprawled in Steve’s chair at the kitchen table, tilting his head forward and breathing through his mouth softly. Steve was standing at the counter, making coffee to try and sober Bucky up somewhat. Steve’s mom was leaning over Bucky, putting on her best nurse voice as she tried to clean Bucky up.

“Nat punched me,” Bucky said in response to Steve’s mom’s question, rolling his eyes at Steve. “I must’ve said that a hundred fucking times.”

“Language,” Steve and his mom said in unison. They shared a thin smile at the habitual correction. It was practically an inside joke to correct people’s bad language at this point, especially since neither even attempted to care about cursing unless it was in front of the other. The smile was short-lived, though, since Bucky interrupted it by sticking his middle finger in the air.

“I think she meant what’d you do to make Natasha punch you,” Steve explained, trying to be helpful and placate Bucky; Bucky was already hurting, and Steve didn’t want to make it worse by pissing Bucky off. Steve placed a steaming mug of black coffee, just like Bucky liked it, in front of him as another peace offering, and squeezed Bucky’s shoulder before falling into the chair beside him.

“How am I supposed to know? It’s Nat. She’s fucking bipolar.” Bucky’s voice was so sharp that Steve probably would have cowered away if it wasn’t for the comically nasal effect Bucky’s probably-broken nose had given it.

“Mercurial,” Steve’s mom, never one to stigmatize mental health, corrected as she gently lifted Bucky’s hand and ice pack away from his nose.

“Mercurial. Sorry, Sarah,” Bucky mumbled. He must’ve been drunker than Steve thought; despite being pissed moments before, Bucky now sounded truly chastised.

“You’re fine, honey,” Steve’s mom said gently, smoothing Bucky’s hair back from his forehead like she did to Steve when he was small. “It’s probably fractured, but I don’t think you need to go to urgent care. Just see your doctor first thing tomorrow, okay?”

Bucky tried to nod but groaned at the sudden movement of his head. “Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed. He felt tense all over; his best friend was in so much pain that he couldn’t even nod, and Steve couldn’t help but feel partially responsible. He knew Natasha and Bucky were bad for each other, but he hadn’t even thought to intervene before Bucky had gotten hurt.

“Will I be able to play next week?” Bucky asked, leaning forward to grab the cup of coffee Steve had made him.

“It’ll be hard to breathe with all the swelling, but you should be fine. Make Steve carry your bag, though. You shouldn’t lift anything for at least three weeks; you don’t want to raise your blood pressure too high,” Steve’s mom, ever the medical professional, replied.

Bucky tried to smile smugly at Steve, but he grimaced instead. Steve felt his chest squeeze; he could’ve stopped Bucky from being in pain, but he hadn’t.

Steve’s mom winced as if in sympathy with both Bucky and Steve’s pain. “Let me get you some Advil, baby. You must be hurting something awful. Steve, can you hold the ice pack on so Bucky can drink?” Steve’s mom asked, pushing herself back from the kitchen table and heading down to their shared bathroom where they kept the first-aid kit.

Steve stood up too and took the ice pack from Bucky, pressing it gently to Bucky’s nose. “How’re you feeling, Buck?” Steve tried not to think too hard about he could feel the soft puffs of Bucky’s breath on his own fingertips, thought about Derek Jeter’s batting stats for his first three seasons instead, but that didn’t change the fact that Steve could feel the air and the warmth and it made the tug in Steve’s gut suddenly tighten again, sharp and insistent.

Bucky took a sip from the mug of coffee and put it back on the table gently, like if he made any noise the mug would shatter. “Hurts,” Bucky said simply.

Steve let his other hand come up to brush through Bucky’s hair. It was something Steve’s mom did for him when he had an asthma attack, or a fever of 103, or a bout of nausea so bad that the only things Steve could keep down for a week were Saltine crackers and Jello. It was something someone did when someone they loved was in pain. It didn’t even occur to Steve that Bucky would lean into the touch and start crying softly.

Steve didn’t even notice until the first tear hit his wrist, the one holding the ice pack to Bucky’s nose. At first Steve had thought it was more blood and glanced down urgently, but then he saw that Bucky’s face was screwed up and he let out a gentle hiccup. Bucky wasn’t a pretty crier. He never had been. His eyes would screw up into slits, and his forehead would wrinkle, and his mouth would widen into a grimace.

Even though Steve had seen Bucky cry numerous times, it never got easier to watch him do so. From the time in Little League he’d gotten hit by a stray pitch in the crotch to the time last year when Natasha had let their prom plans fall through to go to a rave with Clint and Bucky had sobbed out of frustration, it always made Steve feel a little sick inside to watch Bucky cry. It was like that every time someone he loved was upset. On his dad’s birthday, when his mom would visit the grave and sob, or when Peggy was stressed about grades, Steve would always feel a little nauseous.

It was worse now, though, which Steve chose to chalk up to the fact that Steve could’ve prevented this particular pain and had chosen not to in favor of flirting with his girlfriend.

“Hey, Buck, you’re okay. I know it hurts, but you’ll get some painkillers and get fixed right up,” Steve said, trying his best to comfort Bucky and ease his own nausea. “Peggy slipped on the track last year and hit her nose and she was fine within a month.”

The comfort didn’t seem to be working; Bucky just cried harder and wiped his nose on a paper napkin from the holder in the middle of the table. It came away pink. Pink was good; it wasn’t red, so the bleeding must have been slowing down. Steve mentioned that to Bucky as he gently twisted and untwisted a lock of Bucky’s hair, but Bucky didn’t respond.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Steve asked softly, at an utter loss for how to comfort his friend who was in so much pain that he was actually sobbing.

Bucky hiccuped and did his best to shake his head negatively even though Steve was holding his head with both hands. “I  _ told _ you that Nat punched me. It fucking hurts, okay? What else do you wanna hear?” Bucky said miserably.

“Nothing, buddy. You’re okay,” Steve said, trying not to aggravate Bucky any more. The last thing he wanted to do was make Bucky even more upset.

What the fuck had made Natasha punch Bucky? One minute they’d been attached at the genitals, and now Bucky had a broken fucking nose. Nat had always been kind of hot headed, but she’d never punched anyone before. At least, not that Steve knew of. She must have had  _ some _ kind of practice to get a crack like that in.

Steve desperately wanted to press the issue, as much for his own curiosity as to make sure that Bucky was okay, but Bucky was crying and leaning into Steve’s touch, and every time Steve or his mom had asked about it, Bucky had gotten pissed. Steve didn’t want to make Bucky even more upset. So instead they sat there in silence except for Bucky’s hiccups, Steve’s hand tangled in Bucky’s hair.

It was distractingly soft between Steve’s fingers, just long enough that Steve could twist it a little and still have some hanging down to brush his wrist. Bucky tipped his head into Steve, eventually coming to rest his forehead on Steve’s hip. It twisted Steve’s hand horribly to keep the ice pack on Bucky’s nose, but Steve didn’t dare move. Bucky clearly needed comfort, and he was seeking it out by leaning on Steve like this. Steve wasn’t going to turn him away. This was Steve’s best friend since before either was even conscious, after all.

And Steve definitely wasn’t thinking about how nice and solid the pressure of Bucky’s head on his hip felt. Or how much he’d love to bend down and kiss Bucky’s head, light and soft with a pressure akin to a butterfly landing on the tip of your finger. Steve definitely didn’t think anything like that because he had a gorgeous girlfriend and the person he was thinking about in question was not only his best friend, but also in a lot of pain right then.

“Oh, God, Stevie,” Bucky mumbled into Steve’s T-shirt.

“What’s up?” Steve asked, feeling his cheeks color in spite of himself at the almost compulsive way Bucky used his nickname, the one only Steve’s mom was usually allowed to call him.

“What are my parents gonna do?!” Bucky suddenly shouted, startling Steve out of his oncoming guilt about the thoughts he was having about Bucky.

“Huh?” Steve asked intelligently.

“What if they ground me? When Clint and I got in that fight after playoffs last year, they grounded me for two months.”

It had been a bitter loss at the final round before the state championships, a loss by one fluke of a homerun. Bucky and Clint had punched the guy who’d done it since he was gloating. They hadn’t been entirely in the wrong, but certainly not in the right, and Steve’d had to beg the coach to let Bucky get the captaincy as planned. Normally fighting would’ve been Steve’s move, but he’d already been driving back when the fight had broken out, too pissed to stick around and commiserate.

Afterward, Bucky’d been grounded for two months. He’d missed the end-of-season party, and had had to beg his parents to let him to go to prom, even though he ultimately wound up third-wheeling Peggy and Steve and probably would have had more fun staying home. Now, with the season just starting, Bucky would be screwed if he got grounded and they kept him from playing games or going to practices.

Steve glanced down at Bucky, ready to assuage him, but suddenly stopped in his tracks. Bucky had tilted his face up so he was looking up at Steve. His eyes were round and sad, and his chin was fitting into the hollow created by Steve’s hip. If it hadn’t been for Bucky’s blackening eyes and the ice pack Steve was mashing into his nose, it could have been a still from Steve’s fucking dream.

It felt like something fragile had just shattered. A soap bubble popping as it hit the floor. A wineglass fracturing after a careless accident. A nose cracking as it made contact with a fist.

Steve inhaled sharply as his heart started pounding, stumbling back and dropping his hand out of Bucky’s hair and letting go of the ice pack. It hit the floor with a loud clack and startled Steve, making him jump back even further.

Steve should’ve known better. You can’t just casually hold someone you’re having sex dreams about like that without it being weird. You especially can’t do that if the person in question is your best friend. And you especially-especially can’t do that if you have a stunning, perfect girlfriend. If Steve hadn’t scrambled back like that, he’d probably be hard right now. Steve could never let anything like this happen again.

But they were friends, and Steve was just trying to comfort Bucky. They were best friends. What was Steve supposed to do? Let Bucky cry silently, drunk and hurting, without even trying to help because Steve was confused? Or go further, and break up with his girlfriend because being around Bucky made him stupid? Or completely go off the rails and cut Bucky off because Steve’s own subconscious had decided to get a boner for Bucky?

No. Steve couldn’t do anything.

“Steve, holding an ice pack means that you  _ hold _ the ice pack.”

Steve turned quickly. His mom was standing in the entrance to the dining room, holding the plastic first-aid kit that Steve had seen way too many times when he was a kid, and still had a minor distaste for.

“S-sorry,” Steve stammered, leaning down to pick it up and put it back on Bucky’s nose. This time, he made sure that he twisted his arm so that he couldn’t feel Bucky’s soft breaths on his fingertips. Steve needed to stop himself from letting his stupid dreams affect his relationship with Bucky; that meant not inviting himself into situations that made his skin pebble into miles of goosebumps. Situations such as feeling Bucky’s breaths on his skin.

Steve’s mom popped open the kit and passed Bucky three little tablets. He downed them quickly with his coffee before folding his hands in his lap and staring at the floor. He looked like a toddler who had just been thoroughly chastised for throwing a tantrum or something.

Bucky’s breaths were still shuddering, but the tears had mostly slowed. Steve resisted the urge to rub his back. Steve didn’t want to invite any more contact than was necessary because he was an awful person who was selfish enough to not even attempt to comfort his best friend who was clearly hurting because of something that was probably Steve’s fault.

Luckily, Steve’s mom rubbed Bucky’s back instead, in smooth, slow circles like she’d do when Steve had asthma attacks. Steve just stood there like the awkward, evil statue he was, pressing the ice pack as gently as he could to Bucky’s face without dropping it again.

“Thanks for being so cool about this, Sarah,” Bucky said after a minute. Now that he wasn’t crying, the nasal quality was back in full force. It wasn’t funny anymore, though. Instead, it just made Steve’s chest ache. “My mom would have killed me if I dragged Steve into my house drunk and bleeding.”

“Of course, honey. You’re practically my own kid,” Steve’s mom said, laughing softly. “And, no, she wouldn’t kill you. She might yell at you, but she’d take care of Steve. Just like I’m gonna yell at Steve for almost ruining my carpet by dragging you in here, but still fix you right up.”

Bucky laughed, a creaky, painful thing due to his nose. “See? You’re being cool about this.”

Steve’s mom shrugged. “I mean, I am a medical professional. It’s my job to take care of my friend’s kid when he breaks his nose.”

“I didn’t break it,” Bucky said plaintively, reaching for the half-empty mug of coffee. “Natasha did.”

Steve’s mom glanced up nervously at Steve, who shrugged. He didn’t know any more than she did.

“That’s one hell of a punch, then,” Steve’s mom said almost absently. She turned her attention back to Bucky and stroked his hair a few times. It made the tug in Steve’s gut alight anew, and Steve wanted nothing more than to just collapse into bed and try not to think about how to stop his stomach from rolling around Bucky. 

“I guess so. What should I tell my parents? My dad will laugh if he hears that a girl broke my nose.” Bucky sounded so plaintive and  _ young _ that it replaced the tug in Steve’s gut with an uncomfortable squeezing feeling.

“Tell your dad that he’d enforcing a sexist stereotype and should probably talk to someone about that,” Steve said sharply. That made everyone laugh, even though Bucky’s chuckle was closer to a wheeze.

“My mom’s still gonna fucking kill me, no matter who punched me,” Bucky said after he’d stopped laugh-wheezing. “She thinks I’m setting a bad example for Becca.”

“Who is she kidding? Becca is way too smart to copy you,” Steve’s mom teased. It was true; Becca was only a freshman, but she could probably ace every one of Steve’s AP classes and then go head to head with a college professor in a game of  _ Jeopardy! _ and win. She would never follow Bucky’s example of mindless partying and coasting in school if she could help it.

“Hell,  _ you’re _ smart enough to not follow your own shitty example,” Steve teased, letting the cursing rule slide for a minute. Steve’s statement was true, too. Bucky was smart enough to probably do the same academic acrobatics as his sister, but he didn’t care half as much as Becca. He still kicked Steve’s ass in school, especially science, though.

“I do follow my own example, though, and my mom’s still gonna ground me,” Bucky mumbled, finishing his coffee and setting the empty mug down across from him.

“How about this?” Steve’s mom said, tapping her chin the way she did when she was really thinking, like when she was trying to figure out how to pay both the water and electric bills and still get Steve a new uniform. “Call your mom and tell her what happened. Then you stay here tonight. It’ll give her time to cool off, and you can avoid her wrath a few hours longer.” 

That was good for Bucky. And, Steve thought selfishly, this way he wouldn’t have to get grilled by his mom for at least another twelve hours.

“You can take my bed so you don’t have to sleep on the floor,” Steve pitched helpfully.

Bucky shook his head, hissing when that made the ice pack slide across his nose. “I can’t put you out like that,” Bucky said stubbornly.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Buck, c’mon.”

“Steve, I don’t wanna bother you.”

“That’s great, especially because you’re not bothering me.” Steve would always win a battle of wills. He’d been more stubborn than Bucky since they were infants and Steve wouldn’t go for a nap whereas Bucky always did.

“Steve,” Bucky whined.

“C’mon. I’ll even drive you to the doctor tomorrow.”

“Promise I’m not bothering you?”

“Yes!” Steve and his mom said in unison.

“Fine. But I’m bringing you dinner next week,” Bucky relented, crossing his arms over his chest.

It was good that Bucky would bring dinner; both Steve and his mom were horrible cooks, and any time Bucky could bring his mom’s cooking over was more than welcome.

“That’s more than fine. Let’s go. I’ll loan you pajamas and everything, and you can call your mom,” Steve said, grabbing Bucky’s hand to pull him up.

“‘Night,” Steve called to his mom, taking Bucky’s ice pack off and throwing it back in the freezer.

“Good night, boys,” Steve’s mom called back as they walked toward Steve’s room.

They walked into Steve’s bedroom, and Steve barely had time to hope that he’d remembered to take the trash out since the last time he fucked Peggy in here, since, for some idiotic fucking reason, Steve didn’t want Bucky to see the condom before Bucky collapsed onto Steve’s bed and started crying again.

Steve practically had whiplash. It was almost a pattern now; Bucky would seem fine and then as soon as he was with just Steve, he’d break down. He probably didn’t want to freak Steve’s mom out, which Steve appreciated. She had enough on her plate without worrying about Bucky, too.

Steve was worried about Bucky, though. He’d always been good about putting up a front, and now that he clearly wasn’t, he was literally shaking.

“Hey,” Steve said softly, sitting down beside Bucky and placing his hands between Bucky’s shoulder blades, rubbing softly over Bucky’s T-shirt to attempt to steady him. A dream, or even Steve potentially getting hard, didn’t mean shit right now. His best friend was hurting. “You’re okay, buddy. You’re gonna get fixed up.”

Bucky was crumpled into a ball on the edge of the bed, leaning his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees. Steve resisted the urge to making shh-ing noises like he would at a baby, since he was pretty sure that Bucky didn’t need that right now, or ever. Steve was at a loss. Whenever Bucky had cried before, it’d seemed like he was just upset, or overwhelmed. He would always have the presence of mind to try and hide his tears from Steve, even though Bucky never needed to.

This was more than that, though. Bucky was sobbing openly, and there was a profound  _ sadness _ that Steve had never seen before. “Hey,” Steve tried again, lamely, wrapping Bucky into an awkward side-hug.

Bucky leaned his head, into Steve’s shoulder, carefully avoiding letting his nose brush anything. Bucky reached his hands out and twined them around Steve’s waist in an awkward hug that twisted both of their torsos uncomfortably. Bucky’s hiccupping faded into a wheeze after a long moment or two.

“One reason you should stop smoking is that you’ll be able to sob without wheezing,” Steve mumbled, trying to lighten the mood just a bit by inciting their years-old tradition of making fun of Bucky for smoking.

Bucky laughed through his sobs, a horrible wet sound that would’ve made Steve cringe if he hadn’t been so worried for his friend. “Okay, Steve. First fair point you’ve ever made about that.” Bucky’s sentence was being interrupted by hiccups, but at least he was joking around.

“I try,” Steve said softly.

Bucky sighed and tightened his grip on Steve’s middle. “I know you do.” Bucky paused, rubbing his thumb along Steve’s ribs.

“It’s funny,” Bucky said thoughtfully after a moment. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to smell since my nose is so fucked up. But you smell just like you. It’s nice.”

Steve froze, stock still as his mind reeled. Did Bucky just say he  _ smelled nice?! _ It felt like his chest was squeezing again, tighter and tighter like he was a balloon about to pop. Bucky had always complimented Steve, but never on something as decidedly personal as his own  _ scent. _ Was Bucky alluding to something beyond Steve’s comprehension? Was he just making a stupid joke? Before Steve could say anything, though, Bucky had pulled back and stood up, wiping his eyes surreptitiously like he’d never cried in the first place.

“I’m gonna go call my mom.” Bucky said, his voice steadier than it had been since before Steve had seen Nat run out of the party.

“Um, yeah,” Steve responded, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. “Do you need privacy?”

“Sure. I’ll just call her in the bathroom.”

Bucky was gone before Steve could even say bye. Steve sat there, feeling a weird rush of adrenaline pool in his stomach, like he’d done something stupid or dangerous and was about to get caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! It means so much that you do so, and I can't appreciate you enough.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really, really sorry about the delay in this chapter. Life hit me like a ton of bricks. But, now that uni is closed until September, I should have plenty of time (and plenty of updates) for all of you. Thanks so much for your patience! Enjoy!

Steve exhaled slowly. Stress was accelerating his breath, making sweat bead down his brow, but he needed to keep it under control. He needed to stay calm. Steve was the team captain. He needed to keep his head about him. Especially when his co-captain was nowhere to be found and warm-ups for the first game of the most important baseball season of Steve’s entire goddamn life had started ten minutes ago.

It was the first game of their entire season, and Bucky was fucking missing. Steve had called half a dozen times, in addition to the four calls Clint and Tony and Sam each had made, but Bucky still wasn’t answering. It was like he had vanished off the face of the whole goddamn Earth. On the first game of the season that was Steve’s ticket to college. If Bucky wasn’t there, Steve could pretty much kiss everything except the local community college goodbye.

Steve was pacing the crowded dugout, trying to keep himself from digging his nails into his palms. It wasn’t working; every time he tripped over someone’s misplaced cleat or sprawled leg he dug them in deeper. “Any luck?” Steve asked Tony, who had just rung Bucky again.

Tony shook his head and Steve inhaled sharply, turning on his heel to pace in the opposite direction. This game was a big fucking deal. It set the tone for the entire season, and Bucky was just fucking gone. Steve himself had been on the field since school got out, drilling himself and doing a few miles of a light jog around the track. He’d done something like that for every game as long as he could remember.

It might have been obsessive to some, but this was the only way Steve could get himself focused enough to play well. He’d missed this routine of early warm-ups once, in November of his freshman year because his mom had been working a double and hadn’t been able to drop his uniform off at the school. Later that afternoon, after Steve had rushed home and gotten it, he’d missed a fly ball that ended up sending the opposing team to the state championship later that month. Steve was not likely to commit such an error ever again.

He’d come so close to the championship every single year he’d played in high school. Freshman year, eliminated first round of the playoffs. Sophomore year, the round after that. Junior year, the round before the championship. Steve needed to win this year. He needed it for himself, to satisfy that itch that seemed to stem not from his skin, but somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach.

Steve had never been able to afford club baseball like Bucky did in the spring, so this really was his last chance to win, well, anything. And, as if that wasn’t enough pressure, attract scouts for scholarships. He couldn’t miss his chance. Both for himself and for the scouts who, hopefully, were watching his every move.

Steve didn’t even know what he wanted to do in college. He’d have loved to be a doctor or something and help people, but blood freaked him out. Peggy thought that he’d make a great therapist, but that sounded exhausting. Regardless, college was the ticket to every career path except going to the minors straight out of high school, and not even Steve was confident enough to bet on that.

Steve just needed to push everything out of his mind and focus on the game. Which would be easier if his fucking co-captain was here! But Steve did his best to shove that rage down because it had been drilled into himself by his coaches and his mom and himself that rage was unhelpful for actually winning. So he paced instead, trying to stem an inexorable asthma attack or nervous breakdown if Bucky didn’t get his ass here soon. He was the co-captain, for Chrissake, and he couldn’t even be bothered to show up?!

Steve understood why Bucky might be running behind; his broken nose was still a constant source of pain, so much so that Bucky complained at every opportunity and had even turned down offers of going to a party that weekend. Plus, Bucky had to wear a fucking catcher’s helmet while playing for the next three weeks to protect his nose while it healed, which wasn’t exactly Bucky’s favorite thing, given his exorbitant vanity. He also had three little sisters to watch, the oldest of whom was in seventh grade, so if his parents got held up at work he couldn’t exactly just leave them. God, if it had been any other occasion, Steve wouldn’t have fucking cared at all. But it was the first game of the season, and Steve was about to panic.

“Steve, man, it’ll be fine. Barnes is late at least twice a season,” Sam reassured Steve, patting him on the shoulder as Steve continued to pace relentlessly. Sam’s comment was true: Bucky was always running late for something. He’d been especially late this week, too, to school and practice, and even just to hang out. Steve had chalked that up to the fact that he was trying to learn how to put on foundation to hide what Nat’s punch had done to him.

The punch may have only caused a hairline fracture along the bridge which would heal up within three weeks, but it looked about a dozen times worse. Bucky’s nose was a swollen mess and he had black eyes and a hilarious nasal affect to his voice. It was kind of cute, to be honest, but Steve had to do his best to banish that thought from his mind because Bucky was his friend, not someone to moon over.

Bucky’s tardiness to both class and practice and regular hang-outs with their friends also meant that they hadn’t talked about why Bucky had cried the night Nat had punched him yet. Steve was trying his best to assume it was from pain, plain and simple, but the agony over whether Bucky’s parents would find out seemed a little overdramatic, especially for Bucky, who would come home drunk more weekends than he came home sober and not even try to hide it. Steve couldn’t think too long about it, though, because he heard a clunk as someone tossed their bag down next to him at the dugout and a bunch of eager shouting.

And thank God, because the person who’d caused the clunk was Bucky. Maybe Steve’s theory about Bucky wearing foundation this week was true. He wouldn’t be able to wear makeup for a game since it would run when he’d sweat. Now his face looked worse than it had all week. The yellowing bruises around his eyes were red-rimmed now and his nose was inflamed from the red welt at the bridge to the pinkness at the tip. At least he was in uniform except for the cleats and hat, his hair already tied back into a ponytail as he slid his hat on.

“Hey,” Steve said, trying his best to keep the stress out of his voice. “Why weren’t you answering your phone?”

Bucky shrugged and kicked off his garishly neon orange Nikes. “I was driving. That’s unsafe, Stevie.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “You live five minutes away. You couldn’t have been driving that whole time.”

“Who said I was driving from my house?” Bucky replied nonchalantly.

“I’m just wondering how you could be this late to the game,” Steve said. He needed to keep his head on, but he was pissed. The game was starting in twenty minutes, after all.

“I have other things to do sometimes, Steve. I’m sorry,” Bucky muttered, stretching his hams as he reached down to touch his toes. Steve had to make a conscious effort not to study Bucky’s backside as he stretched out, and it made Steve’s cheeks go pink. He had a girlfriend, goddamnit!

“On the first game of the season?” Steve asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He knew he looked at least a little bit intimidating like this. He was built more like a football player than a baseball player, from the broad set of his shoulders to his hulking weight. He’d always been a skinny kid, but since puberty he’d put on weight and muscle. He used that now to try and get under Bucky’s skin. It was fruitless. Bucky’d known him since Bucky could carry him like a sack of potatoes without breaking a sweat.

“I can’t control timing, Stevie,” Bucky said, clapping Steve’s shoulder before stretching out his deltoids.

“You can control when you show up. You’re the fucking co-captain.” Steve was trying to keep a cool head, but it wasn’t working well.

“Exactly! Co-captain! And I knew you’d be here, captaining when I couldn’t.”

Steve opened his mouth to yell at Bucky, but he was cut off by Coach Fury yelling at the end of the dugout. “Rogers! Barnes! Go shake hands with the other captains!” For some middle-aged high school baseball coach, Coach Fury could really yell, and Steve cringed as the shout echoed around the dugout.

“Be right there, Coach!” Bucky yelled back, standing up from his stretches with a little bounce.

Steve bit back an admonishment at Bucky’s nonchalance; pissed as Steve was, he needed Bucky at his best. After Steve, he was the best hitter on the team, and they were neck-and-neck for best fielder. In addition, Bucky was his co-captain. They needed to present a united front to help the cohesion of the team and its morale. If Bucky wasn’t at his best, the team wasn’t.

“Can I talk to you after the game?” Steve said as they walked single-file toward the exit, trying to keep his voice low and spare Bucky the embarrassment of being chewed out in front of the whole team.

Bucky sighed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. Can you?”

Steve resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose like his mom did when he was being an asshole. “Buck, why are you being a dick? We need to focus if we want to win.”

“Why do you have a stick up your ass?” Bucky retorted, nearly tripping over himself as they stepped out onto the warning track.

Steve took another deep breath. He couldn’t lose his cool right then. He needed to focus and to win. “Bucky, please just shut up. You can be an asshole after we win.” Well, maybe that wasn’t the calmest thing Steve could have said, but Bucky was being a dick. Steve had always had a shit temper, but he couldn’t let that fuck him up right now.

“I’m not an asshole. If anything, I am what is in the asshole,” Bucky muttered, staring down at his cleats as they kept walking toward the pitcher’s mound where the ump and the other team captains were already waiting.

“What?” Steve said, only half-listening to Bucky’s posturing. Steve was trying to size up the other captain during the seemingly interminable walk to the pitcher’s mound. The guy was big, but not quite as big as Steve. About Bucky’s size, with maybe an inch or two on him. Bucky was by no means small, but Steve still was a good fifty pounds heavier. Hopefully that’d work to their favor in terms of hitting power.

“Like, the proverbial asshole that is life, ya know? I am in it. I am fucking it.”

“What does that even mean, Buck?” Steve said, mildly amused by Bucky but too annoyed to laugh at him.

“It means that life is my bitch, and I am life’s pimp. Proverbially, of course.”

“Of course.” Steve ignored Bucky’s rambling in favor of looking up in the stands. He saw Peggy up there, wearing his grass-stained jersey from last season. It was too big and she was practically drowning in it, but she looked fucking precious. Steve couldn’t wait for later that night, for victory sex in the back of his car. It wasn’t the classiest of locations, but his mom was sitting right next to Peggy, and Peggy’s parents would be home by the time the game was done, so it was really the only option where they wouldn’t get walked in on.

“God, I’m fucking hungry. Wanna get nachos after the game?” Bucky was saying as they approached the pitcher’s mound.

“No cursing in front of the ump,” Steve reminded, swallowing down the nervous ball of anxiety that had crawled into his throat as they approached the mound.

“But are we still on for nachos?”

“I have plans with Peggy,” Steve said, barely paying attention to Bucky. He knew his shit. He could hit and field in his sleep. They had a solid bullpen this year -- Clint had finally gotten his shit together enough that he was starting, and the three hits that’d been batted against him in pre-season had been from Steve and Bucky. They would be fine if everyone just kept calm and did what they always did.

“Pegs can come too,” Bucky mumbled. “Unless you’d rather motorboat her instead of celebrating the beginning of our last season with nachos with your best friend.”

Steve didn’t even have time to parse the weird lewdness and passive aggression in that statement because they’d finally, blissfully, gotten to the pitcher’s mound.

“Hi,” Steve said brightly, leaning his hand across the mound to shake the opposing team captain’s hand. Upon further inspection, he was a little more muscled along his arms than Steve would have hoped, but he had a little bit of baby fat clinging to his stomach and cheeks that put Steve slightly, very slightly, more at ease. Steve was still strung as tight as a piano wire, but at least he was outwardly keeping his cool. “I’m Steve.”

The guy had a firm handshake, just a little bit sweaty, and Steve did an internal happy dance. He was nervous, too! “I’m Alexei. Nice to meet you,” Alexei said, offering Steve a half smile.

“Bucky,” Bucky said when Alexei and he shook hands. Steve noticed Bucky practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with nervous energy. It actually put Steve at ease to see that Bucky was nervous, that, despite his tardiness, he was taking this seriously.

“What happened to your nose?” Alexei asked as he withdrew his hand.

“Oh, hit-by-pitch. Our pitcher’s got a hundred fifty mile an hour fastball, and it smacked me in the face. They say he’s gonna skip minors and go straight to the majors, and we had a scout that day so he really brought his all. We’re lucky it didn’t hit anyone else. The rest of me’s pretty enough to make up for the nose. Who knows what would’ve happened if any of your team got hit?!” Bucky said without missing a beat.

“Bucky! Sportsmanship,” Steve said through an awkward laugh, trying to tamp down his own internal giggle at Bucky’s obnoxious behavior.

That’s probably why Bucky and Steve were so close; even when Steve was on the edge about anyone and everyone (especially Bucky), Bucky could calm him down and distract him with a few well-placed jokes. They balanced each other. Steve had enough passion and intensity for both of them, and Bucky could bring Steve right back down again.

Both the ump and Alexei shared a quizzical glance at Bucky’s rude and hyperbolic comments. “Okay, boys, let’s play a good, clean game. Have fun!” The ump said gruffly after a brief pause.

“What the fuck was that?” Steve asked Bucky quietly, still stifling his laughter, as they turned to walk back to their dugout and grab Bucky’s stupid catcher’s helmet.

“The truth. And, hey, what happened to not cursing in front of the ump?” Bucky asked brightly.

Steve rolled his eyes, calm now and ready to play. Or, ready to crush, more like. “Do as I say, not as I do. Now, c’mon, we got a game to win.”

***

Steve was pleasantly exhausted. His arms and legs were beautifully sore, and he had a little sheen of sweat on his brow. He was leaning against the lockers as he waited for the rest of the team to clear out of the locker room. His date with Peggy wasn’t until nine, so he had some time to kill before seeing her, and he’d much rather bask in the glow of his seven to nothing victory than jockey for a spot under one of six shower heads with the rest of his seventeen person team.

Instead, Steve texted a little bit with Peggy, who’d sent him a “Congrats!” text which included no less than two dozen distinct emojis. She was such a dork sometimes, and it made Steve’s cheeks heat with a happy blush.

“Thinkin’ about me, Rogers?” Steve glanced up, startled, and saw Bucky smirking at him. Bucky was still dripping wet from his shower, and he had his boxers on, but that was it. His chest and abs and shoulders were all visible and making Steve’s blush shift from happy to embarrassed and hot. When he studied how Bucky’s sopping hair was dripping onto his shoulders and making rivulets down his chest, Steve quickly had to think of insects, his grandmother’s nightgown, the vomit he’d seen stain his mother’s scrubs that one time, to keep from getting hard. It didn’t quite work.

Christ, Steve needed to stop.

“You okay? You look like a drowning fish,” Bucky remarked, arms crossed in concern.

“Fish can’t drown,” Steve said stupidly, making eye contact with Bucky’s Iliac furrow instead of his fucking face.

“Exactly. Yet somehow you look like one who is,” Bucky teased, leaning over Steve to grab his clothes out of his locker. Because of course their lockers were right next to each other. ‘Cause they were friends, right, and co-captains, to boot. But now Steve could smell Bucky’s floral shampoo and shower gel and Steve was flushing down to his chest. He had to get out of here.

“I’m gonna, um, go shower.” Steve said, standing abruptly and almost smacking into Bucky.

“Sounds good. They’re pretty much empty, I think,” Bucky replied as he tugged a faded Smiths T-shirt over his head.

Why did the lockers being empty matter? Steve’s heart started accelerating, hammering against his chest at what Bucky was possibly insinuating. Did Bucky know he was hard? Did he want to join him or something?!

“Um,” Steve stuttered like the overly-turned-on utter idiot that he was. “What?”

“I know you like showering alone, so I was just telling you that they’re empty.” Bucky had a weird smile on his face like Steve was insane and he was trying to calm Steve down before shoving him in a straightjacket and injecting a tranquilizer into his neck.

Steve shook his head. Bucky was just being a kind and courteous friend, like he usually was. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Yeah. Thanks. See you tomorrow,” Steve stuttered slowly, like the idiot he was.

“I might still be here when you get out. My parents had to work so I don’t have a ride for a little bit,” Bucky said as he shimmied into his sinfully tight gray jeans.

“Bus?” Steve asked, arousal blissfully fading in favor of feeling concerned for his friend.

“My mom doesn’t want me taking it anymore, since the ‘mugging’ and all,” Bucky said with exaggerated air quotes. Bucky had lied to his parents about the incident with Nat, fabricating some incident about a mugging so they wouldn’t go on the warpath.

Steve frowned. As well-off Bucky and his family were compared to Steve, Bucky’s parents worked practically 24/7 since they were doctors and had to be on call and everything. That’s even how Steve and Bucky had met, when a pregnant Doctor Barnes got paired with a pregnant Nurse Rogers for a rotation. At least Steve got to see his mom pretty regularly, and she’d given him the family car so he’d have some method of transportation. It’d been especially important when he’d been smaller and could’ve had the shit kicked outta him on public transportation. Bucky, on the other hand, wasn’t allowed to have a car until he could buy one himself.

“Wait in the bleachers. Soak in the last warm days before we’re putting our jerseys over our parkas. I’ll come grab you and drive you home after I shower,” Steve offered, trying his best to be there for his friend.

“What about Pegs?”

Steve flushed yet again when he realized he had completely forgotten about his and Peggy’s date. The date he’d been looking forward to all week. It had been completely, unintentionally shoved out of his subconscious just by Bucky turning Steve the fuck on and then Bucky being minorly inconvenienced. “We’re not meeting till nine. If I shower fast, it’ll be fine.”

Bucky nodded. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Of course, man. You’re my best friend. To the end of the line and all that.”

Bucky smiled softly. “Yeah, all that.”

Bucky grabbed his bag and headed out.

Steve checked the time. It was already eight. He really would need to move pretty fast if he wanted to drive Bucky home and pick up Peggy in time.

He grabbed his regular clothes, a T-shirt and baggy athletic shorts, and went to shower, humming some stupid Bob Dylan song. He tried to keep his thoughts away from his arousal at Bucky’s shirtlessness, but it was the whole “don’t think of a pink elephant” phenomenon. He couldn’t think about anything else. All because of a stupid dream and a stupid Illiac furrow and a stupid chest. It was weird, and gross, and didn’t matter. He had a fucking girlfriend.

Firm in his resolve, Steve shut off the water and went to grab his towel off the hook. It must have fallen because he didn’t feel it. He pulled the curtain aside slightly. His towel was gone. Steve glanced at the bench where his locker was.

The orange locker was hanging open, the metal of the lock he used to close it hanging off the door, looking warped. And the locker was fucking empty. No clothes, no towel, no wallet or house key or anything else. No phone.

He was stranded, naked, in a high school locker room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, commenting, and kudos-ing! I really appreciate all of you!!!


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

Steve stood stock-still. He let out a deep breath and scanned the locker room for the fiftieth time, trying to see what he clearly must be missing. Who would actually  _ steal _ the clothes from the almost-empty locker room of the winning team? Like, not only was it incredibly douchey, but also incredibly cliche. However, the creativity or lack thereof did not change the fact that he was stranded, butt-ass naked, in a school locker room.

What if someone came in, like a custodian or something? Could Steve get in trouble for streaking? It wasn’t like this was really his choice! Regardless, Steve felt a nervous chill at the thought. “Streaking” could mean detention which could mean suspension from playing which could mean no championship which could mean no scholarships which certainly meant no college which definitely meant that he’d be a homeless hobo in the park before the decade was out.

“You’re spiraling, Rogers,” Steve scolded himself. He would have felt embarrassed about talking to himself, but he was already in an embarrassing enough situation that talking to himself wouldn’t matter. He needed to focus and problem solve.

His towel was almost certainly gone. Steve had hung it up on the hook outside the shower stall before getting in, but it wasn’t there, dropped on the floor, forgotten on the bench, anything. Granted, Steve couldn’t really step out of the shower stall in which he was hiding to do a thorough search, but either way his towel was almost certainly gone. His clothes were most definitely gone. The locker with the brass “Captain” placard placed neatly above it was hanging open, the combination lock Steve’s mom had gotten him at Goodwill his third or fourth season of Little League lying in pieces on the floor below the locker. The metal was twisted and warped from what Steve assumed to be were bolt-cutters.

The locker itself was definitely empty. Even the locker shelf he’d gotten handed down from Bucky’s middle school locker had been taken out. Steve could see the scratches on the paint where it must have rubbed against as the culprit tore it out because it had always been a few millimeters too big. Steve had only gotten it in there in the first place by wedging it in at an angle with some help from Bucky. However, even though it was a hand-me-down piece of junk, it still mattered to Steve, and it was gone.

The few pictures he’d hung up of him and Peggy and Bucky were also gone. The only possession of his that wasn’t missing or broken was his deodorant, lying scattered a few feet away from the locker on the floor.

How considerate of the culprit, really. All his shit was gone, but at least he had his deodorant so he wouldn’t reek as he ran through the school naked. The people who saw him running home would only have their eyes assaulted, not their noses, too. How caring.

A more pressing concern than the clothes or even the stupid locker shelf, though, was that his uniform was gone. That was 200 bucks of his mother’s overtime down the fucking drain. Steve would have to beg Coach Fury for a new one, free of charge, or at least a payment plan for a new one.

Steve pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to stay calm. His mom had sewn the Captain’s blue band onto his sleeve just last week, beaming with pride the whole time. Bucky’d shelled out the cash to just special-order the jersey, but Steve’s mom had done that all herself.

Not to mention the gear he kept in the locker room, the socks and athletic tape and the neon cleats he’d begrudgingly accepted from Bucky as his birthday present over the summer. All of that would need to be replaced, and none of it was cheap. The one thing his mother never scrimped on was Steve’s baseball stuff. She knew just as well as him that baseball was their long-term meal ticket. All of that splurging was just wasted.

Worse than that, though, was the fact Steve’s asthma and rescue inhalers were gone. He still had a few at home and in his practice duffel at home, but that was still a prescription that had to be filled and a copay that had to be financed somehow, probably by his mom foregoing lunch for a week or two to scrape together the cash they needed.

Then Steve realized the worst thing of all, his blood running cold as he realized it. His phone was gone. He had no way to call for help, to tell his mom about this emergency, to tell Bucky to get his ass back down here and help Steve. That, too, would be something upwards of two hundred dollars, even if he got a shitty second-hand phone.

He could always get a flip phone and SIM card from a pawn shop or something, but Steve just knew everyone would tease him to the point of tears if he had to resort to that.

At least he still had his keys; those were in his academic locker, not his athletics one. He’d at least be able to get home.

However, it wasn’t like Steve could just stroll to his academic locker and then to his car. He was naked, so he was, in effect,  _ stuck in here. _ Steve took a deep breath through his nose, trying desperately to think of a solution, any solution.

He could rip the moldy shower curtain off and wear it like some kind of toga, but that was both probably vandalism, and not much better than running naked due to how narrow the curtain was and how little of Steve it would probably cover. And he’d probably get some disease from the mildew growing at the bottom of the curtain.

He could see if he could break into anyone else’s locker, but that just made him the same level as whoever had stolen his clothes.

Bucky! Steve could probably steal some of the clothes Bucky kept in here! He wouldn’t be breaking in because he would (hopefully) be able to guess the combo and return the clothes to Bucky. It wasn’t stealing or vandalism or anything!

Besides, Steve knew Bucky at least kept a pair of basketball shorts and his jersey in his own locker. Steve could just borrow them for the night. Bucky wouldn’t mind once Steve explained the situation. The clothes would probably be too tight, but they’d be better than, well, literal nothing.

Of course, there was the fact that Steve would have to walk bare-ass naked to the locker and stand there for at least a few minutes fucking with different combinations until he could actually get  _ in _ the locker. But that was better than the other option, which would be to run around equally naked trying to find the culprit before getting arrested for public nudity and having his future stripped away from him before his very eyes.

“Clint walks around here naked, anyway,” Steve muttered to himself as he tried to reach deep within himself to get the balls to go to Bucky’s locker and start trying random combinations.

Steve wasn’t even that insecure, not since he’d piled on seven inches and a hundred and ten pounds of muscle freshman and sophomore year. But still, there was something objectively humiliating and horrifying about walking around a technically public place naked. Sure, it was a locker room and everything, but anyone who had the key could walk in at any time.

Like Coach Fury. Or his math teacher from junior year whom he’d had a minor crush on and whom Peggy had hated because of the crush. Steve didn’t even think Ms. Hill had the key, but she might. Even the fucking principal might walk in, and he’d call the police on Steve’s naked ass before Steve could even explain the situation.

_ “Get a grip,” _ Steve growled as he stepped out of the shower and half-walked-half-ran the ten feet to Bucky’s locker.

It was a similar combination lock to Steve’s own. Well, the one that used to be his own, Steve thought ruefully. Luckily, the lock had a label engraved onto the blue polish that read “4-Digit Combination Lock.” That meant there were only so many combos he could try! Or, at least, there were fewer combos than if Steve didn’t know the number of digits he needed to try. But, knowing Bucky as well as he did, he could very probably figure out a four-digit combo.

He started with Bucky’s birthday, 0310. Bucky was just narcissistic and stupid enough to have his own fucking birthday as his combo, but it yielded nothing. The lock stayed firmly closed, seemingly mocking Steve. Next, he tried every year the Mets won the World Series. Bucky was certainly enough of a Mets-loving idiot to make one of those his combo. Nothing, even 1986, the World Series Bucky had actually cried over one time he was high, opened the lock.

He could try the years the Mets had won the National League Championship, but he couldn’t think of all of them off the top of his head. He tried Bucky’s sisters’ birthdays, his parents’, even Bucky’s parents’ anniversary. Steve sighed, dragging a hand over his face. He had done every date important to Bucky. He was naked, and cold, and he had no way of opening the fucking lock. He could try to rip the lock off, but he wasn’t Superman. He still tried it, though, half-heartedly, to no avail.

Steve glanced at the clock on the wall of the locker room. It had been nearly half an hour since Bucky’d left. Normally, Steve took half, a third of that time. Bucky might have been worried. Bucky might have come back to check on Steve, made sure he hadn’t died or something, but Steve wasn’t sure. Bucky might have assumed Steve had decided to go on his date with Peggy and then just started walking. Steve would never do that, though. Not to his closest friend since before he had even been born.

Did Bucky know that, though? Or was he up there, thinking Steve had abandoned him?! Steve felt like he was going to cry. He was fucked! He needed fucking clothes, especially since it was getting later and Bucky still needed a ride home.

Steve mostly felt desperately unsafe. Someone had just gone down here and  _ taken _ stuff that Steve paid for, that he needed. He felt like someone had just kicked him in the ribs, his breath coming short and too fast. Steve needed to calm down, to try to think what  _ fucking _ combination Bucky put in his godforsaken lock, but it felt like the world was crashing down around him.

Steve could feel his heart pounding at the thought of telling his mom about it. She wouldn’t be mad, not really. She’d probably just chew the inside of her lip the way she did when Steve majorly fucked up and she had to fix it. She’d pull out the worn moleskine notebook Steve had gotten for her for Christmas last year -- it was meant to be a place for journaling, but it had become Steve’s mom’s budget planner, filled with notes about utilities and receipts and coupon clippings. She’d make a few notes, muttering about moving things around a little next month. And then she’d pick up doubles until the soles of her nice work shoes wore through and she patched them with duct tape and gave the shoe money to pay for Steve’s uniform instead.

Guilt was worrying a hole in the pit of Steve’s stomach. He was screwing over his mom. He should have done something different so this wouldn’t have happened. He should have just gotten over himself and showered with other people so the locker room wouldn’t be empty and his stuff wouldn’t be stolen.

And, selfishly, Steve was worried about his own fate. He couldn’t just walk out of the locker room fucking naked; he’d get suspended, or get the police called on him or something. Steve didn’t even want to think about trying to afford bail. Steve sat down on the bench, trying desperately not to think about whatever germs were probably making their way into his bare asshole by sitting on the grimy bench wholly naked. He just hoped the germs didn’t make him mold from the inside out or something. Knowing Bucky, Steve’d never hear the end of it if he literally molded.

Steve thunked his head against the bank of lockers behind him, resolutely shutting his eyes. He had no way out; there was no way in hell he’d leave the locker room naked. He was going to have to stay here until Monday morning when some poor, unsuspecting gym teacher found him crying in the corner, starving and freezing and still naked. He was already cold and he wrapped his arms tightly around his middle like that would do anything.

“Stevie?!”

Steve started as a bright voice echoed around the locker room.

“Did you hit your head or something? I wanna fucking go home! It’s getting chilly!”

“Buck!” Steve yelled excitedly.

“Steve, why are you screaming? It’s not like we’re long-lost lovers or-” Bucky cut himself off abruptly as he turned the corner of the bank of lockers and saw Steve.

Steve immediately jumped to cup his junk and hide it from view. It wasn’t like Bucky’d  _ never _ seen it before. After all, close proximity for seventeen-plus years had its pros and cons. However, it was still morbidly embarrassing. But, other than that practically instinctual movement, Steve felt absolutely deer-in-the-headlights, vomiting-on-stage-opening-night-of-the-school-play, pee-your-pants-on-the-first-date frozen in fear. 

There was a silence and a sudden tension between Steve and Bucky that Steve had never felt before. The closest they’d ever come to it was when Steve found a condom in Bucky’s trash in eighth grade and had been utterly appalled as to how his best friend, who liked books about astronomy and flying cars and was scared to play Survivor Mode in Minecraft, somehow was having sex. This was similar in that they made eye contact for what was too long, probably at least a solid three seconds, but felt like fifty eternities to Steve. It was similar in that Steve had felt frozen both times, his heart was sitting in his throat. It was similar in that Steve’s throat had dried and he’d felt a blush stem from so deep in the pit of his stomach that it almost felt like it was resonating from his groin.

Bucky, at least, looked different. During the eighth grade incident, his eyes had been narrowed, almost in challenge. Now, his eyes were wide, his irises thin rings of icy blue around blown pupils. Then, his lips were pursed in embarrassment, the lower one shaking ever-so-slightly, face devoid of color, and his hands balled into fists. Here, Bucky’s lips were slightly parted, a blush high on the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and his hands were held out in front of him like he was demonstrating the fact that he was unarmed.

Even though it wasn’t the same expression as Bucky’d worn that afternoon in eighth grade, Steve would have still sworn that he’d seen that expression on Bucky’s face before, but he couldn’t think where or when.

Finally, after so much time that Steve was impressed Bucky hadn’t grown a feet-long gray beard, Bucky broke the silence. He stuck his tongue out and wet his lips before swallowing and saying in a rough voice, “You wanna get dressed?”

Steve swallowed too, trying to ignore the unforeseen tension like Bucky clearly was attempting. “My, um, stuff was stolen,” he said, gesturing lamely with the hand that wasn’t hiding himself from Bucky.

“Wait, what?” Bucky asked, crossing his arms over his middle, accusatory.

“Like, shit’s gone.” Steve’s lack of eloquence wasn’t exactly for lack of trying. He just knew that if he tried to elaborate he’d cry or scream, and he didn’t want to call any more attention to himself than he already merited by sitting naked in front of his best friend.

And now, at the worst possible time, Steve remembered that this was the best friend he’d had a recurring wet dream about, and Steve’s cheeks flushed. This could have been a scene ripped from the precursor to that dream, some strange, awkward prologue to it. But then Steve felt even grosser because now he ran the risk of getting  _ hard _ in front of Bucky. It wasn’t like he had any way to hide it.

“How do you know?” Bucky asked, shaking Steve out of his guilty reverie.

“Look at my fucking locker, man,” Steve replied sullenly. “My bag, my clothes, my phone. . . . Everything’s  _ gone.” _

Bucky walked past Steve to look at his locker. His eyes went round as he saw the haphazard way the way the locker was strewn open. “I’ve never been more glad that I lost the stupid ‘Captain’ placard in my garage,” Bucky muttered absently.

“Huh?” Steve knew he sounded stupid, but he couldn’t be bothered with trying to put up any kind of facade. His shit was  _ gone. _ It felt like he was in mourning for a dead relative or something, which was probably a little dramatic, but felt apt, given that Steve’s dad had died when Steve was too young to understand what death was, and he thus had little experience with grieving.

“Well, it was probably the other team that did this. I mean, we smoked them, so they wanted revenge or something. Who better to take revenge on than the team captain?” Bucky was still looking at the locker, holding his hands out like he wanted to touch the scratches in the wood from where the locker shelf had been yanked out, but was restraining himself.

“I think that’s a little dramatic,” Steve argued.

“Well, no one else’s shit is stolen, and you’re the only one who has a ‘Captain’ plaque,” Bucky said firmly.

“It might have just been someone on the team pulling a prank or something, Buck.”

Bucky shook his head vehemently. His hair was still wet from his shower and it splattered water droplets around the room. He looked like a muddy dog, and Steve would have laughed if he wasn’t in his current situation. “Steve, you had important shit in there. Your fucking medicine is in there, man. No one on the team would do this.”

“Who knows,” Steve said lamely. “They could just be drunk and think they’re being hilarious. I have backups of my meds at home, anyway.”

Bucky shook his head again. “You’re too well-liked for someone to pull that shit. It had to have been a stranger.”

Steve wanted to argue about the well-liked comment, seeing as he was the one who’d added ten extra sprints to every practice for every one minute someone was late, but before he could, Bucky was talking again.

“I mean, your fucking gear is gone! No one on the team would fuck with that. You’re the captain.”

Steve leaned his head in the hand that wasn’t covering himself, groaning. “I have no idea how I’m going to afford to get all this shit replaced. I don’t even have a phone anymore. The only thing I still have is my car keys because they’re in my other fucking locker.”

Bucky’s expression softened and he plopped down on the bench next to Steve. “Well, at least you can get home. And when you do, you can call your phone company and brick your phone so whoever stole your shit can’t, like, abuse your data or something. And, for the gear, we could, like, start a Kickstarter or something. Or I could spot you. I still have some money from reffing Little League last summer.”

Steve shook his head. “Buck, I can’t ask you to do that. This shit was like a thousand bucks cumulatively.”

Bucky shook his head again. “I don’t care. Now let me get you some clothes,” Bucky announced, standing up again.

“Buck,” Steve groaned, “I can’t ask you to pay for my shit.”

“Well, you’re not asking. I’m telling.” Bucky had always been stubborn, but something about the jut of his jaw and the way he was staring Steve down like he was waiting for a challenge made him seem more obstinate than Steve had ever seen him.

“You’re not making any choices until my mom talks to yours. Okay?” Steve asked. It was the best he could hope for in terms of a compromise with how set Bucky looked.

“Fine. But I’m doing it no matter what they say, got it?” Bucky said mulishly. “Also, how the  _ fuck _ did they do this to your stuff? Don’t you have a lock or something?” Bucky’s voice now sounded almost obnoxiously incredulous, like he was trying willfully to change topics.

“They used bolt-cutters or something on it,” Steve replied, gesturing toward the warped metal of what used to be his combo lock on the floor.

Bucky bent down to pick up the ripped chunk of the lock that laid on the floor, but stopped when Steve made a panicked noise, still unmoving. It wasn’t like he could stand to stop Bucky; at least sitting he could hide his ass and his crotch at the same time instead of flashing/mooning Bucky.

“Wait! What if there’s fingerprints on it or something?!” Steve cried in lieu of getting up.

Bucky jumped back like he’d been burned. “Shit, Stevie, you’re right! I bet there’s a DNA sample somewhere around here, too. Give me ten minutes. I need to start hunting for clues,” Bucky said, so boyscout-earnest that Steve rolled his eyes almost instinctively, flipping Bucky off lazily.

“Golly gee, Mister, we oughta call the Hardy Boys! They’ll set the record straight.” Bucky’s face was split by a shit-eating grin, the blush and uncertainty from barely a minute before completely gone.

“Buck, I just don’t wanna contaminate evidence or something, okay?” Steve groaned, dragging his free hand over his face.

“You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry, Steve,” Bucky replied, his face and affect so flat that it wasn’t even surprising when he burst out a bout of giggles and added, “We need to wait till Hercule Poirot gets here. We can’t move. They might need to swab your bare ass for the culprit’s DNA.”

Steve rolled his eyes again. Any minute hint of tension had vanished with Bucky’s obnoxious teasing. “Har-dee-har-har, Buck. Can I please borrow some of your clothes now? I’m getting cold.”

Bucky laughed again, the sound echoing off of the walls. “Wait, but Briscoe and Logan are still in the city! With traffic, they probably won’t be up here for three or four more hours. How are gonna catch this crook?”

“Buck,” Steve said. He knew he was whining, but he really did not have any patience for how ridiculous Bucky was being.

“I bet the Scooby Gang would love to get their hands on this crime scene. They’ll find the culprit for sure!”

“First of all, it’s the Mystery Gang. Second of all, they don’t investigate crimes, they investigate strange goings-on and mysterious phenomena,” Steve said without thinking.

Bucky giggled again. “Dork.”

“Jerk.”

“Punk.”

“So,” Bucky began brightly as he stepped past Steve and grabbed the combination lock to his own locker, “you feeling better yet?”

Steve hadn’t even realized that he wasn’t being crushed by anxiety anymore. His breaths were coming easier and his palms weren’t as sweaty. Steve snickered softly. “It never ceases to amaze me that you can get me out of my head with a couple of dumbass jokes.”

“I have many, many talents. This is but one of them,” Bucky said, taking an over-exaggerated bow. 

“Sure,” Steve said, half-smiling.

“I am but a simple knight in shining armor, rescuing you, my beautiful damsel in distress,” Bucky continued in one of the worst British accents Steve had ever heard.

Steve flushed in spite of himself. It was so stupid that a sarcastic comment about Steve being “beautiful” made him flush more than Bucky finding him butt-naked in a locker room, but Steve couldn’t stop himself. It just made him feel warm all over, both nervously and pleasantly, when Bucky said he was beautiful.

“Your British accent is shit,” Steve contributed, more to just have something to say than to tease.

“No, no, stop! Don’t praise me too much. It’ll go to my head.”

“You know,” Steve said, trying to barb back, “you’re not quite a knight in shining armor. You left me hanging for quite a while there. Maybe if you stopped smoking, you’d have checked on me sooner.”

Bucky audibly scoffed at Steve’s attempt to reprimand him for smoking. It may have been something they did every day, but Bucky still rolled his eyes. “You know, I could leave you stranded, naked, right now, Rogers.” Bucky turned, putting his hand on his hip like he was one of the Real Housewives putting on a show of reprimanding her kid when the nanny had gone home for the day.

“But you won’t,” Steve countered. 

“You’re right. I won’t. Because I am the bestest friend in the whole wide world,” Bucky declared proudly, putting his combo into the lock and grabbing out some of the clothes carelessly tossed in there.

“I only have my jockstrap in here, so unless you wanna wear my sweaty jockstrap home, you might have to go commando. That okay?” Bucky said, tossing a green athletic hoodie and a pair of sweats at Steve.

Steve couldn’t help the way he felt something stir in the pit of his stomach stir at the idea of Bucky in a jockstrap, Bucky  _ under him _ in a jockstrap, Bucky  _ taking that jockstrap off _ just for Steve, but the resulting hot shame killed that quickly. Bucky was literally giving him clothes and saving him from some asshole who had probably put Steve at least a thousand dollars in the hole, and here he was getting  _ hard _ thinking about Bucky in a jockstrap. It made Steve feel shameful and hot with embarrassment inside.

He was effectively taking advantage of Bucky by imagining Bucky in a sexual matter. He was objectifying Bucky. He was using his image and his ass and his arms as jerk-off material when Bucky was just trying to be Steve’s friend. It made Steve feel sick inside, and he swallowed dryly.

“Hey, buddy. You freaking out again?” Bucky asked gently.

Steve whipped his head up from where it had focused on the row of showers before him. Bucky was leaning against the bank of lockers opposite Steve, concern wrinkling his brow.

“I told you buddy, it’s gonna be okay. We could start a GoFundMe or something for the gear, and if you borrow your mom’s phone tonight you can call your phone company and brick your phone when you get home, and you have backups of your meds. It’s gonna be okay, Stevie.” Bucky’s voice was softer than his normal brash manner, but that just made Steve feel worse inside.

Bucky was comforting him and Steve was taking advantage of Bucky. “I’m gonna go change,” Steve said lamely.

Bucky nodded and clapped his hands over his eyes. “Go ahead. I won’t violate your modesty any more than it has already been violated.”

Steve flipped Bucky off on instinct before realizing that Bucky couldn’t see him. “I just want you to know that I’m flipping you off,” Steve said, standing and shimmying into the sweats. They were obnoxiously tight around his hips and groin and about four inches too short, but Bucky was smaller than him, and Steve was in no position to complain. At least they fit -- if Bucky had given Steve any of the pairs of skinny jeans that Bucky himself had to wiggle into, Steve wouldn’t have been able to get one leg through.

“You gotta be careful, Rogers. I could revoke your clothing privileges at any time,” Bucky teased, hands still cupped tightly over his eyes.

That made Steve flush all over. The idea of being  _ purposefully _ naked in front of Bucky like in his fucking dream that he’d had at least twice this week made Steve feel sick. He really was taking advantage of Bucky. Steve didn’t have anything to say that didn’t involve telling Bucky about the dream, so he clamped his mouth shut and tugged the hoodie over his head. The hoodie left about half an inch of midriff exposed, and Steve felt like he was about to make a walk-of-shame even though there wasn’t any external shame to be had.

“My modesty can no longer be violated,” Steve announced with sarcastic aplomb.

Bucky took his hands off his eyes and let out a wolf-whistle. “Well, Rogers, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Bucky said lowly, batting his eyelashes at Steve.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up and let’s go home,” Steve said brashly.

“Of course, hottie,” Bucky said lasciviously.

It was only once Steve was home and into bed, having bricked his phone the second he walked in the door, that he realized he had completely flaked on Peggy.

But a thought crept into the back of Steve’s head that made him feel sick: it didn’t feel like a bad thing to flake on her. It felt kind of like a relief that he was able to just collapse into bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again! Let me know what y'all think. Stay safe and healthy and I hope you're doing okay!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I finish editing this instead of doing my coursework? 100%. Was it worth it? 100%. Enjoy and thanks for reading!

“Can you pass the popcorn?” Steve mumbled, leaning over his AP Psych notebook. He’d scrawled down notes in class in his chicken-scratch handwriting, and now they were completely illegible. He was absolutely fucked for the test on Monday. Now he didn’t even know to spell cerebellum, much less where it was located in the brain and its function.

“Stevie, honey, everything okay?” Peggy asked gently. They were sprawled on Steve’s bedroom floor, their ankles hooked together as they pored over their notes and split a truly ginormous bowl of popcorn. Split really meant that Steve would eat the entire bowl except for a few polite handfuls taken by Peggy, but neither of them minded. Ever since Steve had hit his growth spurt freshman year, he’d been constantly ravenous, and Peggy had understood that, having seen Steve’s five-foot-four before and his six-two after.

Steve shrugged, rubbing his ankle against Peggy’s where they were linked. Her skin was soft and smooth and smelled like the stupidly expensive honeysuckle lotion she liked. It made her foot almost slippery against Steve’s, which wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but made his skin itch in a weird way. He shook his head against the sensation as he wolfed down a huge handful of popcorn.

“‘M fine,” Steve grumbled, mouth full.

Peggy turned to look at him, her manicured eyebrow arching beautifully. Steve wanted to toss his notebook in the trash and kiss her eyebrow, right on the tip of the arch, but that wasn’t an option. He needed to study. They couldn’t take this anywhere. Yet, at least.

“Then why are you all ‘pass me the popcorn, wench?’” Peggy said in a stupid, gruff voice.

Steve laughed despite himself. “I’m worried about the test. My notes are shit and I need to keep my grades up for colleges.”

Peggy nodded and rubbed her ankle against Steve’s. Steve grit his teeth against the itch. “Well, you can use my notes, and I can make you a Quizlet or something. You’re gonna be fine. Besides, you’re such a talented athlete, colleges will take you as long as you prove to them that you know how to read. As long as you pass, you can just coast on baseball.”

Steve shook his head stubbornly. “If I don’t do well this season, I can by no means count on baseball to get me into college, Pegs.”

“You’re doing fine, Stevie,” Peggy said, unhooking their ankles so she could sit up and cup Steve’s face in her delicate hands. She rubbed her thumbs over Steve’s cheekbones delicately, and Steve swallowed the embarrassing noises he wanted to make in response to her light touch. “You’re, what, four games in? And undefeated.”

Steve nodded. They had been doing well. Steve himself had hit for the cycle on their last game on Friday, and Clint had pitched a shut-out the game before. The game before that, both Bucky and Steve had scored homers. They were doing fine by all measures, but Steve couldn’t help the niggling feeling of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

“We still need to win three or four more games to be sure that we’re going to the playoffs. I’m just nervous.” Steve shoved another hunk of popcorn in his mouth to avoid saying that he was freaking out about not getting enough sleep because of the sex dream and his lack of sleep would lead to a shitty performance which would lead to him attending the local community college.

“You, my friend, are the best baseball player I’ve ever seen. And I saw Aaron Judge on the Yankees,” Peggy said fondly.

Steve smiled back at her. That had been one of their first real dates. Steve had saved up from reffing Little League for almost a month so he could buy train tickets to take Peggy down to the Bronx to see a Yankees game. They’d been dating for maybe three months at that point, and Steve had never been so nervous. Peggy had gotten a beer spilled on her white Derek Jeter T-shirt that she’d confessed to buying on Amazon just for the date, so Steve had loaned her his own Derek Jeter hoodie instead. It had been ridiculously huge and draped off her frame. She had looked adorable.

He still remembered who the Yankees were playing. It had been the Red Sox, and the Yankees had absolutely trounced them. It’d been beautiful.

The memory made something warm uncurl in Steve’s gut. He couldn’t remember a time since where he’d felt so calm and carefree. Every date was usually just an attempt at posturing to make the other person want you more, but that one had been the first one Steve could remember that was just fun and relaxed. There were others that had been relaxed since then, sure, but, especially lately, it felt like finals or college or Peggy leaving to go to England was constantly weighing in the back of Steve’s mind whenever they spent time together. That date had just been light, and Steve felt himself yearning for that.

He still loved Peggy, obviously, but he’d felt weird around her lately, especially since the sex dream. It wasn’t like Steve could help it or anything. He just didn’t want to hurt her, and his subconscious being attracted to someone else, someone so close to Steve, no less, probably fell in the category of hurting her.

And, more pressing than that, were just the everyday concerns Steve had weighing on him. The (hopefully successful) end of the season. Potential scholarships. Tracking down his fucking stolen possessions from the assholes who took them after the first game of the season. Finding a way to ever repay Bucky for letting him borrow a thousand dollars to replace everything that had been stolen. This fucking psych test. It felt like everything was swirling around his brain, mocking him for being stupid and unprepared.

“Steve, where’s your head at?” Peggy said softly. She grabbed Steve’s hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back like Steve was some sort of princess at a ball and Peggy was Prince Charming asking him for a dance. It made Steve huff a laugh in spite of himself.

“There’s just a lot going on. I’m worried about this test. I’m worried about getting my stuff back. I’m worried about how I’m ever going to repay Bucky. He’s giving me everything he’s saved over the summer. I feel like a jerk.” Steve professed as he pushed himself up from the floor and sat cross-legged in front of Peggy.

“Oh, Stevie,” Peggy said softly. “You have a lot of balls up in the air right now, huh?” Peggy’s brown eyes were warm and soft, and Steve let himself exhale slowly.

“I just wish I knew something more concrete. About anything.” That was true. Steve knew nothing. About his stuff, about how Bucky expected Steve to pay him back, about how he was going to afford school.

The stolen stuff was the main thing bogging his mind down. His mom had taken him down to the police station the morning after the incident, and they’d taken his statement, but the cops had literally told him not to hold out hope. After all, there were no witnesses in the locker room since Steve had specifically waited till it was empty to shower. There were no cameras in there either, since, after all, it was a locker room and no one wanted to get sued. There wasn’t even a way to get the money back from insurance because Steve hadn’t even  _ thought _ to ensure neon cleats and an ugly uniform and rolls of athletic tape.

“I know, honey,” Peggy said, her voice soft and soothing like it had been that one time when Steve had slept over and had a nightmare. She’d been calm and caring and got him a class of water. She’d sat with him until his heart stopped pounding and supervised him taking a few puffs of his inhaler before even thinking of trying to get back to sleep herself. “At least you’re getting your stuff replaced. That’s something good and concrete.”

Steve exhaled sharply, ducking his head. The whole “getting his stuff replaced” endeavor was incredibly fraught. Bucky was paying for everything. A new duffel, uniform, everything. He was even replacing Steve’s phone, albeit with a shitter model. It made Steve feel sick with guilt. He couldn’t afford to pay Bucky back now, or even soon. Maybe, with student loans and everything, not ever. Steve felt awful. He hated feeling like he and Bucky weren’t equals.

Once, back in middle school, when Bucky’d already hit his growth spurt but Steve was still five foot nothing Little Stevie Rogers, Steve’d had his money for the bus home stolen by an eighth grader. He’d put up a fight, sure, but he’d been thin as a whip, and, if Steve was remembering right, recovering from a bout of pneumonia at the time.

Bucky had come in from nowhere and socked the kid in the face before walking Steve to the stop himself and covering his ticket with his own money. Steve had felt like he’d owed Bucky for weeks, and it had made him feel gross. He had avoided Bucky for almost a week, embarrassed, before Bucky yelled at Steve’s mom because he thought Steve had been grounded for coming home with a black eye and that was why he hadn’t seen Steve.

Steve was a little more mature now, or at least he’d like to think he was, so he hadn’t been avoiding Bucky actively, but he still felt weird around him. When they’d walk to class, Steve had to force himself to make eye contact. He hated feeling less than equal with Bucky. Steve remembered the utter relief he’d felt last spring when they’d been named co-captains. No awkward power imbalance to navigate, just two best friends crushing their last baseball season together.

Bucky never did anything to further the impression that they weren’t equal, even when Steve was small and Bucky wasn’t, but that didn’t change the fact that Steve hated not being on equal footing with him.

“Babe, you’re thinking too hard,” Peggy said warmly, squeezing his shoulder. “Wanna distract yourself?”

Steve glanced up at her, confused by her meaning.

“Your mom’s working a double, yeah?” she added softly.

Steve nodded dumbly.

“I could try to help take the edge off.” Peggy’s cheeks were tinged pink, but she wasn’t shy or shrinking away the way Steve sometimes did when he asked to have sex with her.

“Pegs, I can’t fail this test,” Steve groaned. The words ached as they passed his lips. It would have been amazing to just fuck Peggy into the mattress and not think about the fucking limbic system for half an hour. But then Steve thought about failing and getting benched for the next game and his heart sunk even further. He needed to study.

“Maybe just a blowjob then? Then you can study to your heart’s content,” Peggy teased, leaning up on her knees so she could kiss Steve without twisting her back uncomfortably.

“Pegs,” Steve said softly.

“You’ll be fine if you take a break for a little bit, Steve,” Peggy replied easily, planting her hands firmly on Steve’s shoulders. The tops of her thighs were pressed to Steve’s knees, and if she moved any closer, she’d be straddling him.  _ God, _ Steve wanted that. Steve’s two heads were saying wildly different things, but then Peggy leaned forward pressed her soft, pillowy lips to his and the lower head won out.

To be honest, it wasn’t even a contest. Peggy  _ had _ said that they would just be taking a break before studying more. It couldn’t hurt to have a little stress relief once in a while.

Peggy’s lips were a little waxy from her lipstick, but her tongue was warm and soft and sweet as it brushed Steve’s own. Steve could almost taste the lingering flavor of popcorn at the back of her mouth. Steve tilted his head down a little more and leaned over to grab Peggy’s thighs.

Peggy was by no means large, but Steve still loved that he was strong enough to manhandle her over his lap. Her knees slotted around his hips, and he rutted up needily, groaning.

Peggy shifted her hands to fist in Steve’s hair, tugging at the blonde locks gently, like she was just reminding Steve she was there. Steve could have done with it a little harder, more insistent, but he wasn’t going to complain. His lap and mouth was full of beautiful girl, and he wasn’t going to complain.

He rubbed his hands down Peggy’s jean-clad thighs. The fabric was soft, but Steve couldn’t wait to get her pants off and feel how much softer her shaven skin was.

Peggy broke the kiss first, trailing kisses down to Steve’s jaw and across his neck instead. She ducked in to plant a hickey on the soft skin behind his ear, but they were interrupted by the obnoxiously loud buzzer to Steve’s apartment.

Steve started, knocking his jaw against Peggy’s forehead. They both cringed in pain, and Steve rubbed her thighs harder in apology. “Sorry, baby,” Steve murmured, kissing her cheek to convey his regret.

The buzzer sounded again, so Steve groaned, gently extracting himself from Peggy to go out into the hall and press the button for the intercom. The intercom was the one fancy feature of Steve’s apartment building. With Steve’s mom being a single parent working late shifts, she needed to make sure Steve was safe and secure when he had to be left alone for long nights or the doubles she pulled to cover both rent and utilities. Even so, the speaker was shit and the buzzer sounded like a cat’s yowl.

Steve pressed the button for the intercom lazily, hoping whoever it was would go so he could go get his dick sucked. Already, he was tenting his joggers. “Yeah?” Steve said into the intercom, hoping his voice didn’t sound too rough from arousal.

“Stevie?” Bucky’s voice blared over the speakers. “It’s me. Um, Bucky. I was wondering, if you weren’t busy, if you wanted to hang out.”

Steve was pretty sure Bucky sounded uncomfortable. He couldn’t quite hear Bucky’s tone over the crackly speaker that he and his mom had begged the building’s super to replace on at least three occasions, though. The speaker popped randomly sometimes, startling both Steve and his mom, and the rest of the time, when they were actively using it, it was so staticky that it would be a miracle if they could hear any sort of diction. However, Steve had known Bucky since before they were even born and thought that he could hear a little bit of nerves in Bucky’s tone.

Steve watched Peggy follow him into the hall and lean against the doorframe to Steve’s room, her perfect eyebrows raising in question. Steve’s own eyebrows were creasing in the middle as worry about Bucky permeated. Bucky usually sounded blithe and happy, but here he definitely sounded worried.

“It’s Bucky,” Steve told Peggy as he took his finger off the button that activated the mic on Steve’s end.

“Tell him to leave?” Peggy asked. Her lips were just a little swollen and Steve could have come in his pants from the sight of them and the way she was breathing just a little harder than she did normally.

“Um, Buck, I’m studying,” Steve stuttered out. He felt bad as soon as he’d said it. Bucky was his best friend, and it wasn’t fair to ignore him in favor of Peggy, even if Peggy had promised to suck his dick. 

“Oh. Um, it’ll only take a minute,” Bucky replied. His voice was higher pitched than normal. He must have been really freaked out.

However, Steve was hard. Obnoxiously so. Honestly, if it had been anyone except Bucky, Steve would have told them to fuck off. Really, if Bucky sounded like his normal joking self, Steve would have sent him packing, but Bucky sounded truly worried. Of course, Steve certainly wanted to keep going, but Bucky was his best friend, and something sounded wrong with him. It wasn’t like Steve could just say, “No, I’m fucking my girlfriend. See you at practice.” It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t even residual guilt from the fact Bucky had been almost obnoxiously generous with helping Steve replace his stuff that made Steve want to let Bucky up. Instead, it was a weird tugging just behind his sternum that made Steve want to let Bucky in. A niggling feeling of concern and something else that Steve couldn’t quite name.

“Pegs, he’s my best friend. My mom won’t be home till ten at the earliest. Can you wait just a little?” Steve asked her, pouting in the way that worked on his mom up until his growth spurt and he grew to tower almost a foot over her.

Peggy pouted back a little, but nodded. “Fine. But you’re doing the thing I like with your tongue,” Peggy said, standing up straight from her reclined position against the doorframe and wiping imaginary crumbs off like she was dirty from straddling Steve so wantonly.

Steve blushed at the lewd request as he pressed the intercom and buzzed Bucky in. “Come on up, Buck.”

Steve shifted his weight to unlock the front door so Bucky could just come in when he made it up the four flights of stairs. Bucky had been around Steve long enough to know to just barge in if it was open.

Peggy passed Steve and walked into the kitchen, toting the half-full bowl of popcorn. It would be at least a few minutes for Bucky to walk up all those stairs, so Steve took the time to walk into the kitchen after Peggy.

She was setting the bowl down on the kitchen table. Steve came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her neck as an apology for cutting their little makeout session short. The skin was soft and smooth like it always was. Steve kissed it gently, rubbing his thumbs in little circles on her hips over her T-shirt. “It’ll just be a minute, and then we’ll have all night,” he whispered.

“You’re lucky I’m so patient,” Peggy teased. Steve could feel a little bit more heat behind the words than just teasing, though, so he squeezed a little harder with his thumbs, trying to convey to Peggy how much he appreciated her.

“You’re right. I am so lucky.”

“You can make it up to me at homecoming in a couple weeks, yeah? Instead of going to the baseball party, we could just head back here, watch a movie or something,” Peggy said, leaning her neck back into Steve’s ministrations.

Steve stopped kissing her neck and stood up. The baseball team always had a party after homecoming, and it was Steve and Bucky’s job to host it this year. It was always fun; people getting too drunk and making out with their girlfriends and playing stupid games of beer pong. He couldn’t just skip it, especially since it was technically his job to host it. It was going to be at Bucky’s house since you couldn’t exactly have a house party in Steve’s two-bedroom fourth-floor walkup, but Steve was still in charge of helping set-up, take-down, and making sure no one broke Bucky’s mom’s favorite vases.

“Pegs, I can’t just skip that,” Steve said softly. “I’m technically in charge of it.”

Peggy sighed in a way that person less enamored with her would call dramatic and placed her hands over Steve’s. “Just once? Just take a load off and say ‘fuck ‘em?’” She had angled her head so that Steve could look into her big, pleading brown eyes. Steve felt like an asshole. He had flaked on Peggy twice in the past month, and here he was flaking on her again while somehow simultaneously canceling plans Peggy obviously really cared about.

But he couldn’t leave Bucky in the lurch like that, especially with how Bucky consistently helped Steve out with his shit and was generous with Steve to a fault.

“I’m sorry, Peggy. What about the Friday night of Homecoming Week instead? Then we won’t even have to bother with getting all dressed up or anything, and we can just hang out,” Steve offered.

Peggy squeezed Steve’s hands softly before twisting away from him to pour herself a glass of water from the sink. “I have a track meet then. It’s okay, though. I’ll see you at the dance at least.”

Steve knew he’d fucked up. You don’t just shut your girlfriend’s plans down like that without being a jerk. But he could fix this. He loved Peggy, and she just needed to know that. “You can come to the party,” Steve offered lamely. It was the wrong thing to say. Of course Peggy could come to the party -- she was the girlfriend of the captain. “Or, like, I want you to be there.” That was worse. He sounded like a complete asshole, uncaring of Peggy’s feelings.

He was  _ deigning _ to invite her to a party she was already probably going to. He was being a major douchebag, but it was like he couldn’t help it. He felt like he had both feet shoved in his mouth.

Steve hated that feeling; it always felt so easy, so relaxed, with Peggy, and now it didn’t. And it was all Steve’s fault for flaking on her so many times.

Peggy shrugged as she drank her water. “I’ll see how bad my heels are killing my feet,” she said finally, looking squarely at the floor instead of making eye contact with Steve.

Steve opened his mouth to answer, to try to apologize, but then there was a knock at the door. Steve promptly shut his mouth and turned to answer the door. That in and of itself was weird; Bucky would always just barge in. He never bothered knocking.

Steve had a bitter taste in the back of his throat as he went to answer the door. Peggy had gone from sweet and supportive to weird and standoffish in barely a minute. Worse, Steve had no idea how to make it better. It wasn’t like Steve could make it up to her by resuming their activities while Bucky was here.

Peggy was usually patient to a fault, and Steve had still made her upset. He felt like a fucking tool.

Steve opened the door, still ruminating about Peggy. Bucky was standing on the step, tapping his feet anxiously. He was clutching a bouquet of daisies in his right hand so tightly that Steve was worried the stems would snap. Bucky was holding a cigarette to his lips with his left hand, which was shaking just a little bit. Bucky’s nose had been healing well, but it was still a little bruised around the bridge and under his eyes. He looked like he had huge bags, but Steve knew it was just the residual effects on the broken nose. Bucky was tapping his foot almost compulsively.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said warmly.

Bucky looked almost surprised to see Steve there, even though Steve’d buzzed up just a minute before. Bucky was also just a little out of breath, probably from all the flights of stairs.

“Hi,” Bucky said after a minute, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbing it out on the cement floor of the hallway. Steve tried and failed to not think about how the hell he was going to get the scent and the ash out of the hall before his mom yelled at him or the super charged them for the cleaning fee.

“You know, if you didn’t smoke, you wouldn’t have to worry about stubbing out your cigarettes before being allowed in my house,” Steve teased, trying to assess why Bucky was so tense. Steve wasn’t even thinking about his misfortunes with Peggy anymore to be honest; his best friend looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack.

Bucky laughed half-heartedly and fixed his gaze squarely on the floor. The laugh sounded manic, and Steve drew his eyebrows together. What had Bucky so riled up? Had he been mugged or something? If he had, Steve would fucking the find the guy and deck him in the fucking face. Bucky didn’t deserve to be treated like that. He could be kind of an asshole, but he was funny and stupidly generous. He’d probably just give the mugger all the money in his wallet if the mugger asked nicely. Who the fuck had gotten Bucky freaked out like this?

Even after Nat had punched Bucky, causing his broken nose, he hadn’t acted so freaked out. Something awful must have happened.

“What’s up?” Steve asked after another moment of awkward pause, leaning against the doorframe.

Bucky swallowed dryly before making eye contact with Steve. Steve could practically hear Bucky’s throat click. Bucky’s breaths were coming a little quick still, but he might still have been recovering from the stairs. Or he could be running from a serial killer or something. Steve had no idea what else would freak Bucky out this much. “I, um, need to talk to you,” Bucky said after a moment.

His eyes were wide and he kept licking his lips. Steve had only seen him like this once, before the middle school production of Shrek in which he’d been cast as Lord Farquaad and had freaked out before going on stage. Steve had only been able to calm him down by making short jokes that were nonsensical, given that Steve had been up to Bucky’s shoulder on a good day at that point.

Maybe Bucky had smoked too much weed. That’d happened over the summer and Bucky had freaked out that his parents were gonna kick him out for some reason. Steve’d been able to calm him down by practically force-feeding him McDonald’s, but it didn’t look like that’d work this time. Bucky eyes weren’t bloodshot, for one, and he wasn’t swaying absently or staring into space anything else he usually did when he was high.

“Yeah, sure. What’s going on?” Steve’s eyebrows creased in the middle again. Bucky had always been comfortable around Steve, but he looked like he was a deer in headlights. And why did he have daisies? Maybe it wasn’t a serial killer chasing him, but a rapist who’d tried to ply him with a bouquet of daisies. There was a good florist on the corner near Bucky’s house. But then why would Bucky come all the way over here instead of just heading home? More to the point, if he was being chased, why hadn’t he called the police or something?

“I know my timing’s shit, but I just need to tell you I, um-”

Bucky abruptly stopped talking right as Steve felt Peggy’s arms wind around his waist. Maybe it was a rapist, and Bucky felt embarrassed or emasculated talking about it in front of Peggy. That might make sense.

Bucky was also wearing a button-down shirt and slacks, which might have supported Steve’s rapist theory. Not many people wore formalwear on a random Sunday evening, and it could attract attention. That said, why was Bucky dressed nicely anyway? The man lived for jeans and hoodies, or joggers and T-shirts when he was feeling lazy.

“Peggy!” Bucky blurted, distracting Steve from Steve’s awful detective skills. Bucky’s face, which had been concerningly pale, now flushed bright pink. “Hi!” Bucky’s voice was loud and almost obnoxious.

“Hey, Bucky. What do you need?” Peggy asked, leaning her head against Steve’s shoulder.

“You’re studying, right?” Bucky said. He was talking even quicker now, his foot tapping more frantically against the cement stairwell.

“Um, yeah. Psychology,” Steve answered, utterly perplexed at how weird Bucky was acting. Maybe he was playing a game, a scavenger hunt or something. That might account for the flowers and how out of breath Bucky was. If he was running around town, of course he’d be out of breath. However, that didn’t explain why he looked like he was freaking out, his eyes and wide and palms noticeably sweaty even from the distance Steve had from him. Or why a scavenger hunt involved worrying Steve instead of letting Steve get laid. Nor did it explain why Bucky needed to tell Steve something.

“Great!” Bucky announced, pushing past Steve and walking into the kitchen. “I’m totally gonna fail the test tomorrow. Can I study with you guys?”

“Buck?” Steve asked, shutting the door and locking it before following Bucky into his kitchen. Bucky was still clutching the daisies, tight enough that Steve was no longer worried he’d break the stems, but rather that he’d mash the stems into a fine pulp. “What’d you need to tell me?”

“That I’m really worried about this test. Can I study with you?” Bucky’s words were coming quickly and Steve was worried that he was going to have a panic attack. Or that he was already in the middle of one. Maybe he’d been napping and had a nightmare about Steve or something. That explained why he’d shown up unannounced, and the nerves. It didn’t explain the flowers or why he was now insisting on studying for the test, though.

“I need to put these in a vase. Where are your vases?” Bucky said suddenly as he began banging open cabinets, standing on tiptoe to peer into all of them. Maybe Bucky really was just freaking out over the test. But Bucky had always been fine with straight Ds in classes he didn’t give a shit about, and he slept through Psych half the time, so Steve was pretty sure Bucky didn’t care. It also didn’t explain the flowers.

Steve looked quizzically at Peggy, who just shrugged. She was still mad -- Steve could tell from the way her eyes were harder than they usually were. Great. The two most important people in Steve’s life outside of his mom, and one of them was having a panic attack while the other glared daggers at him. At least one of them he could attempt to fix in front of the other without making it uncomfortable. Or, more uncomfortable than it already was, at least.

“Buck? Deep breaths, man. What’s going on?” Steve said, coming behind Bucky and putting a hand in between his shoulder blades.

Bucky jumped nearly a foot in the air at the contact. “Shit, man, you scared me,” Bucky said, smiling an impressively wide grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Maybe it was the rapist situation, and that’s why Bucky was so freaked out by human contact.

“Why did you bring flowers?” Steve asked gently, trying both to satiate his own curiosity and to distract Bucky from whatever made him freak out at Steve’s touch.

“For your mom,” Bucky said, again too quickly. “She works so hard, I thought she’d want something nice.”

“That’s real sweet of you, Buck,” Steve said quizzically, utterly confused at Bucky’s behavior. Steve couldn’t think of a solution that explained the clothes and the daisies and the panic. Was Bucky having a nervous breakdown or something? Steve had known him for years and had never seen anything like this, or any warning signs. He was probably a bad friend, too wrapped up in his own shit to realize what was going on with Bucky.

What if Bucky had needed Steve for months? Steve hadn’t lifted a finger to help him. First Steve had fucked up with his girlfriend, and now his best friend. Steve was a real piece of work. And here he was again, making it all about him when something was clearly wrong with Bucky.

“Of course. I should get going now, huh? Gotta study for that test. Sorry for interrupting. I’m gonna leave the flowers here. Sorry again.” Bucky twisted out of Steve’s touch and walked out the front door, slamming it behind him.

“Bucky?! Are you okay?” Steve called after him, but he was already gone. “Should I go after him?” Steve asked Peggy.

She looked just as confused as Steve though, but maybe a little more pissed off. She was still mad at Steve. It made sense; Steve had fucked up. She had every right. But that didn’t change the fact that Bucky might be in real trouble. Steve couldn’t even call him to follow up because he hadn’t gotten a SIM card to put in his new phone yet.

“I wouldn’t. He freaked out when you touched him. He probably took Molly or something and is reacting badly to it,” Peggy said coolly. That might make sense, and it explained the weird behavior. It certainly fit Bucky’s profile.

“Still. Do you think he can get home okay?” Steve was worried. He couldn’t help it. Something was obviously wrong, and Steve couldn’t fix it.

Steve cursed the fact his mom had gotten rid of the landline as soon as Steve had gotten a cell phone. He had no way of checking in with Bucky now.

“I mean, he got here okay,” Peggy said. 

“I’m worried about him, Pegs. Something was wrong.”

Peggy nodded thoughtfully. “I have his parents’ number. I can call them if you want, but I should get going too, actually. I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

“Promise?”

“Of course, Stevie. I’ll send you pictures of my notes too, okay? It’s gonna be fine.”

Steve hoped so desperately. Something was  _ wrong,  _ and Steve could do nothing to fix it. He hated feeling helpless. At least Peggy didn’t seem actively mad at him anymore, but rather just cool. Steve could handle cool. Of course, seeing your friend having a psychotic break will certainly distract you from whatever was making you pissed at your boyfriend.

Steve was gonna kill whoever stole his shit. If he’d had a phone, he could call Bucky’s parents himself and make sure he was okay. Was Bucky  _ scared _ of Steve? Was that why he flinched so bad when Steve had touched him?

Steve had no idea what he’d done wrong, and it was freaking him out worse than he’d been freaking out about the test. That made sense, though. Bucky was Steve’s best friend after all. Of course Bucky being in distress had that effect on Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Stay healthy and safe!


	8. Chapter Eight

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Steve asked anxiously, tugging at the sleeves of the charcoal suit jacket anxiously.

_ “Yes,” _ Bucky said, exasperated. It was fair to be exasperated with him, Steve supposed. It was coming up on their third hour in Men’s Warehouse, and Steve was still agonizing over his tux for Homecoming. Bucky had picked his in half an hour flat, including tailoring, filling out the rental agreement, paying, and even picking a fucking pocket square. Steve hadn’t even found a jacket he liked.

“Don’t be a dick. I want to make sure I look okay. You know Peggy’s gonna be the prettiest one there, and I want to be able to match her.” Steve tugged at the sleeves a little more, looking at the three mirrors aimed at him. Were the sleeves too short? Steve hated too-small clothes, especially since he had too many of them, given that he had absolutely zero idea how to shop for a tall, buff body instead of a scrawny one. The inseam of the pants felt long enough, at least. However, that might be worse than if the whole suit was ill-fitting; Steve’s proportions would be all off if the pants were the right length but the jacket was too small.

“I don’t even get why we have to wear tuxes. It’s Homecoming, not prom, or, like, my wedding or something,” Bucky added boredly, messing with his pocket square.

“Ah yes, prom and your wedding, the two quintissential occasions,” Steve teased.

Bucky flipped Steve off half-heartedly. He was pretzeled in a plush loveseat arranged for people to sit while they ooh-ed and ah-ed at the person trying on clothes. Steve, meanwhile, was standing on a little pedestal surrounded on three sides by mirrors. He felt more than a little exposed, especially since he was in a tux and Bucky was in a denim jacket and a stained T-shirt from camp when they were in middle school. It was riding up just a little bit, showing a sliver of Bucky’s abdomen, and Steve desperately wanted to look away. That was a little difficult, though, when Steve was surrounded by mirrors that all had Bucky in the background of them.

“It’s Black Tie-themed. They can’t really make a dress code that’s not black tie,” Steve explained instead of dwelling on the pale strip of skin in between Bucky’s pink jeans and T-shirt.

Bucky groaned theatrically in response.

Steve made eye contact with himself in the mirror, reminding himself to be patient with both his attraction to Bucky and Bucky’s complianing. After all, it had only been a week or so since Bucky had rushed into Steve’s apartment, panicked, before running out even faster than he’d arrived. Steve needed to be purposefully gentle with Bucky. Steve didn’t want to send Bucky into an anxiety attack again. Or, at least Steve thought it was an anxiety attack. He couldn’t think of another reason why Bucky would be freaking out, or set off by Steve of all people touching him. He’d been comfortable around Steve since they were babies, and Steve didn’t see any reason why that would change other than a panic attack.

Steve watched in the mirror as Bucky rolled his eyes and kicked his feet up on the armrest of the loveseat he was lounging on as he waited for Steve to finish up. “Who chose that stupid theme anyway?”

“Peggy did. She’s the chair of the Homecoming committee. I think it’s fun,” Steve replied boredly as he glanced at the pants.  _ Was _ the inseam too short? It felt comfortable, but he was showing a little bit more of his dress socks than he did in his dad’s old suit that Steve had claimed as soon as he’d grown into it. Of course, that suit was made in the ‘90s so it stood to reason that a suit made this millennium might fit better. However, Steve didn’t exactly want to give everyone an eyeful of his hairy ankle if his socks slid down or something.

“Is the inseam long enough? I don’t wanna, like, flash ankle or something.”

Bucky gave a fake gasp, holding the back of his hand to his forehead like he was a damsel in distress about to faint. “Golly gee, Mr. Rogers, not  _ ankle! _ My delicate wiles!”

Steve laughed at Bucky’s over-dramatic performance. It was a wonder that kid played baseball. He could have totally crushed the lead in the school play. Steve could practically see Bucky playing Roger in  _ Rent, _ wearing those stupid, obscenely tight leather pants the costume crew had ordered from a  _ Fifty Shades of Grey _ -themed site. With that, Steve had to shift his thoughts almost violently before he popped a stiffy in a fucking Men’s Warehouse _ . _

“What will Peggy think if she sees you looking like a whore in public?”

That, at least, killed Steve’s impending boner. Steve really was out here thinking of people other than his adoring girlfriend sexually. Bucky had no idea how close he was to the truth that Steve was a whore, emotionally, at least.

“I think Peggy will know that I’m faithful to her,” Steve said, too sharply. Good going, Rogers, Steve thought bitterly. That wasn’t defensive at all.

“Sorry, man,” Bucky mumbled, flipping himself so he was fully upside down, his hair dipping down to brush the floor.

Steve made a conscious decision to not think about how soft Bucky’s hair looked, and if it was as soft in real life as it was in Steve’s idiotic recurring sex dream. Last night, Steve’d had the dream  _ twice. _ It was getting worse, and it made Steve want to scream constantly.

“You do have to admit that she’s got you whipped, though,” Bucky added when Steve didn’t respond to Bucky’s half-assed apology.

Steve raised an eyebrow in response. Peggy most certainly did not have him whipped. Steve’s repeated instances of flaking were evidence enough of that. In fact, Steve had been kind of a shitty boyfriend the past few months. He’d left her at a party alone, he’d completely forgotten their date and hadn’t even texted, and he’d stopped them from having sex to witness Bucky’s panic attack without even helping just last week. Steve needed to make it up to her by making their Homecoming perfect.

He could start by asking Peggy to the dance as over-the-top as possible. The kind of shit that made  _ Ellen _ before making the rounds on the white mom corner of Facebook. There was only one problem: Steve hadn’t even thought about how he was going to ask Peggy. He’d never asked her out specially for any dance before, but he wanted to so he could make up for how he had been treating her. Maybe he could make a sign or something. However, since he owed Bucky a thousand dollars for replacing Steve’s things that had been stolen the month previous, Steve didn’t exactly have any money to spare. Just yesterday, he’d found a dollar bill on the curb outside of his building, and instead of tucking it into his wallet, he’d dropped it straight into the Repay Bucky mason jar he had on his nightstand.

Bucky had told him not to worry about it, but Steve couldn’t help it. He felt like a monster for just taking Bucky’s money like that. Bucky knew Steve’s financial situation, knew Steve usually scraped every penny he had to pay his car insurance, and had never pressured Steve like that, but Steve hated feeling like a leech on Bucky’s generosity.

However, every dollar going toward Bucky meant that Steve would probably have a shitty Homecoming-posal or whatever the terminology was for asking someone to Homecoming. Even Steve just renting a tux for the dance had his mom working three doubles. His mom said she didn’t mind, but Steve still felt bad. He was just leeching off of everyone, really, and he probably would never make it to the majors and never be able to pay them back, and instead would be scraping money together from his dead-end job at a 7-11 or something.

“Steve? Still wrapped up in your fashion crisis?” Bucky asked, his tone a little softer than his comment about Peggy having Steve whipped.

Steve rolled his eyes, doing his best to play it cool. Bucky didn’t even know the half of it. After all, it wasn’t even a fashion crisis -- more of a financial crisis, really. Or a moral one. Or both. Or, more accurately, all three simultaneously.

“Do you think the charcoal’s okay? Peggy’s dress is yellow and I don’t want to wash her out or something,” Steve said to avoid thinking about his numerous crises.

“Well, Tim Gunn, I think you’ll look fine. Stop stressing,” Bucky said, still upside down and kicking his feet against the back of the loveseat.

“Buck, get your gross-ass sneakers off the fuckin’ loveseat. You’re gonna get us kicked out. And who’s the pot calling the kettle black, Mr. Dove-Gray-Matches-My-Eyes-Better-but-I-Look-Sexier-in-Blue-so-I’m-gonna-call-my-mom-about-it,” Steve retorted. Bucky nodded slowly and rotated into a seated position, his hair flopping into his face as he pulled it back into a loose topknot. He looked like the patchouli-scented hipsters on the boardwalk on the Jersey Shore, but it was endearing somehow. Probably because of the way he was sitting cross-legged but hunched over like a little kid during snack time protecting his graham crackers from the class bully.

“I may have done that, but at least I only took half an hour. Plus, that’s a terrible roast. You didn’t even name a Project Runway personality! Personally, I think I’m a Karlie Kloss,” Bucky teased, leaning his head on his hands and drumming his fingers along his jaw. Steve had never really noticed how thin Bucky’s fingers were. They were lithe and long, in a way that almost reminded Steve of serval cats. Steve looked away surreptitiously. That was a very-not-friendly way of thinking, and that was weird and not okay. Especially since he had been such an asshole to Peggy lately.

Steve needed to keep his weird sex dream in his subconscious where it belonged, and focus on finding a tux so he’d make Peggy look as good as she deserved.

“Fine. I’m getting it. White dress shirt and a green tie, you think?” Steve asked, giving himself another once-over.

Bucky shook his head. “Blue tie. It’ll match your eyes better. And blue pocket square,” he said confidently.

Steve gave Bucky a once-over, confused by Bucky’s sudden vehemence about Steve’s outfit choice when before Bucky was acting apathetic as anything. Now, though, Bucky was looking a little off into space. His cheeks were tinged pink like he was just a little tipsy, or embarrassed. Steve shrugged. At least now he’d be able to buy the stupid tux and stop stressing. He’d look fine. And even if he didn’t, then Peggy would just look better by comparison.

“I’m gonna get this one,” Steve announced.

Bucky let out a sarcastic cheer, the sheen in his eyes gone as quick as it had arrived. “At last, Goldilocks has found her outfit!” Bucky whooped as Steve went into the nearby changing room to slip back into his hoodie and joggers.

Steve locked the door firmly behind him, being sure to check that he had all his clothes, piled in the corner of the dressing room. One could never be too careful. Steve was still coming down from the fact he’d actually been robbed (and the fact that Bucky was paying for everything that had been stolen). He’d chosen this dressing room because Steve’d had a clear view of it from the little mirrored area where he’d been trying on tuxes. It was probably paranoid, but Steve wasn’t about to find some way to shell out even more money to replace even more clothes.

“How am I Goldilocks?” Steve asked in response to Bucky’s goading as he unbuttoned the fancy slacks.

“Well, for one, your hair’s gold,” Bucky began.

Steve blushed at the description. Most everyone just called him a blond, but Bucky was calling his hair gold. It sounded so over the top that it almost made Steve embarrassed. As Steve unbuttoned the dress shirt he’d brought to wear under the tuxes, he saw that the flush was running almost to his navel, which made him blush further. Steve stubbornly shoved his hoodie over his head to avoid thinking about it and going even redder.

“For two,” Bucky continued from outside the changing room, “you can’t ever choose one thing. You always need compromise. Everyone-” Bucky paused for a minute. “Everything’s always too much something or too little something else. You need something in the middle.”

“I guess,” Steve shrugged as he folded the slacks and jacket and placed them on the little bench in the room.

“Or maybe you’re the princess and the pea,” Bucky said. “You see a problem with everything.”

“Only with you,” Steve teased. “You know, because you’re a problem and all.”

Bucky laughed, a snorting, ugly sound that he’d been making since before Steve could remember. “See? Here you go again, finding problems!”

Steve laughed back as he adjusted the drawstring on his purple hoodie. The hoodie had been from baseball camp. Steve’s mom had begged the counselor to let him have one even though they couldn’t pay the fee. He had been the only one not wearing one on the last day of camp, so his mom had eventually bargained to get it for twenty dollars instead of the original forty. “Someone’s angry that he had to wait for half an hour while I chose clothes,” Steve said, pulling his gray joggers up over his hips.

“More hangry than really angry. Wanna grab coffee? There’s a Starbucks on the corner. My treat,” Bucky said brightly as Steve exited the dressing room.

“You’re not spending any more money on me, Barnes,” Steve said warningly as he walked toward the counter to fill out the rental agreement.

“What if we just went to my house and made grilled cheeses and planned the Hoco party? That’s free. And I’ll be there, which should be reason enough to go.”

“Ok, Buck, sure.” They did need to hammer out the details for the Hoco party, seeing as it was less than a week away. Every year, the captains of the baseball team threw a party for the team and their girlfriends after the dance, and Steve wasn’t planning on letting it suck this year. It was gonna be at Bucky’s house since they had convinced his parents to take his sisters down to the city to see a Broadway show that same evening. The team could go fucking crazy. Or, as crazy as a suburban party with a two-drink limit could be. The two drink limit wasn’t exactly set in stone, but Steve was going to push it; they had a game the day after and Steve wasn’t about to deal with a hungover team during it. 

“Great!” Bucky said, waiting patiently as Steve filled out the rental paperwork for his tux. However, patiently for Bucky meant drumming his fingers on everything within tapping distance, running his hands through the wisps of hair that had escaped his bun, and pacing in little half-circles behind Steve. Bucky had always had trouble staying still, but this was a little ridiculous, and Steve gave the sales clerk an apologetic half-smile while she wrapped his tux in tissue paper and placed it into a shopping bag.

“All good?” Bucky asked when Steve took the bag.

“Yep. Lead the way,” Steve replied, adjusting his bag and walking onto the busy street behind Bucky.

Bucky kept a good dozen feet ahead of Steve as they made the short walk back to Bucky’s house. Bucky’d always been a faster walker, and Steve was content to let him walk ahead and walk back, swinging his arms boisterously, like an overly excited humanoid puppy. Steve had made this walk a hundred times before, but normally he was coming from school or the park or the mall instead of Men’s Warehouse. He’d made it in the middle of winter, and he’d had an asthma attack as soon as he hit Bucky’s stoop. He’d walked the route in summer when he was sweating so bad that his shirt had soaked through. Bucky, seeing as they had been in seventh grade at the time, had mocked Steve for not knowing what deodorant was since Bucky had always been incredibly mature.

It was the middle of October, now, though, and Steve was glad the temperature was decidedly neutral. There was a cool breeze, and Bucky’s hair kept being blown back out of his bun. Steve wanted to run his hands through his hair, see if it was as soft as Steve remembered it being the last time he’d touched it. Not like a brushing touch, but a real, intentional touch. Of course, that touch had been at a party near the end of last year and Steve’d been holding Bucky’s hair back while he vomited into a potted plant, but that still counted as an intentional touch. Bucky’s hair, even while the man attached to it was ralphing, had felt almost obnoxiously soft.

Peggy’s hair was always soft, but Bucky’s was something else, probably because the individual strands were each finer than Peggy’s. Steve felt a little swallow of guilt in the back of his throat at comparing Bucky and Peggy like they were the same. They weren’t, of course. One was a consistently-drunk, loud-mouthed, hilarious, kind-of-asshole-ish-but-never-enough-to-really-piss-Steve-off friend, and the other was a sweet, sexy, smart girlfriend.

Steve needed to keep their two entities separate, for all of their sakes, but it felt like he’d been blurring the line more and more lately. He’d canceled on Peggy numerous times for Bucky. Bucky was paying for everything for Steve like they were fucking married or something. Steve was fucking  _ dreaming _ about Bucky, not Peggy, for chrissakes. Steve needed to get a handle on himself. In his waking hours, Steve wasn’t any more attracted to Bucky than he would be any random woman on the street with a nice ass.

And, more important than that, he  _ wasn’t _ attracted to Bucky, not really. It was just a sex dream plaguing him. Steve’s attraction to Bucky wasn’t real, and Steve wasn’t attracted to other men. He was straight. Of course, he’d jerked off to George Clooney on ER once or twice, but who hadn’t?!

Oh, god,  _ was _ Steve attracted to men? He’d never thought about it before. He’d always just assumed he was straight, since he very well knew he was attracted to women.

Steve was straight. He had to be. He wasn’t mooning over every other guy on the street. His eyes didn’t follow guys’ asses like they did girls’. He wasn’t looking up gay porn or anything. He was just confusing himself because whatever part of his brain that created dreams was on crack or something. Plus, even that fucked-up part wasn’t making this a sexuality thing; if it was, Steve would have dreams about men other than Bucky, and he most certainly was not. That was for shit-sure, since literally all of his dreams were about Bucky, not some faceless man with a huge dick like would be the case if it actually  _ was _ a sexuality thing.

This wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t! After all, there was a clear solution: Steve just needed to set boundaries for himself. No more cancelling on Peggy for Bucky. No more jerking off when he woke up hard from the dream. He could just take a cold shower or something. No more sessions of practically fantasizing about Bucky’s hair.

Steve wasn’t repressing himself or anything, he rationalized. He was just treating his girlfriend well. This whole dream issue was emotional cheating after all, and Steve needed to just get a handle on himself. Peggy didn’t deserve to deal with that.

“Shit, Steve, is your fashion crisis still going on? I’m willing to go back, but  _ Christ.” _

Steve’s head jerked up from how it had been focused on his feet as he walked. He was stopping just inches short of crashing into Bucky, who had halted his pace seemingly suddenly, looking back at Steve, perplexed.

“What’s up?” Steve asked, confused. He had been so distracted with his fucking sex dream that now he was ignoring his best friend. That was a billionth reason why he needed to get this sex dream out of his head. He was being shitty to everyone in his life because of it.

“I just asked if you could hold my bag for a sec. I don’t wanna light my tux on fire or some shit,” Bucky said, laughing.

“Y-yeah,” Steve stammered, taking the black shopping bag out of Bucky’s hand.

“What a gentleman. You’d make a great boyfriend, Rogers,” Bucky teased as he took a pack of Camels and a neon green Zippo out of the pocket of his denim jacket.

Steve felt himself flush immediately. What was Bucky insinuating? Had Steve been thinking out loud or something? He didn’t even know if he  _ wanted _ to date Bucky; after all, the dream had been about sex, not, like, love or anything real. Anything like what he shared with Peggy. Peggy, on whom he was emotionally cheating by even thinking about whether he wanted to date Bucky.

“I-I am. To Peggy,” Steve muttered after several too-long moments.

“That is true, given as you’re practically married to the woman,” Bucky teased, smirking around his cigarette as he lit it, cupping his hands around the lighter to protect the flame from the wind. He was obviously trying to bring some levity to the conversation to keep Steve’s thoughts from spiraling even further, which Steve appreciated.

Despite Bucky’s efforts, though, Steve felt himself flush yet again. If only Bucky knew what a shitty boyfriend he actually was. Here Bucky was,  _ teasing _ Steve for being such a good partner, and Steve was practically betraying both Peggy and Bucky before his very eyes. Steve needed to get a grip. He needed to focus. He couldn’t concentrate on baseball and school like he was supposed to if every time Bucky teased him he had a minor crisis of conscience.

“Hey, Steve.” Bucky’s voice was calm and patient. Steve usually only heard that tone when he was having an asthma attack and Bucky was trying to keep him calm enough to find his inhaler. Steve remembered the first time he’d had a real asthma attack around Bucky, back in third grade. Bucky had used the same voice and rubbed Steve’s back even as he dug around frantically to find Steve’s inhaler in his backpack. Bucky was using the voice he used when Steve was freaking out.

“I wasn’t trying to make fun of you or anything. I was just teasing. I’m sorry,” Bucky said softly, taking his shopping bag back from Steve.

“I know,” Steve said quickly, not wanting to alarm Bucky.

“Okay, but you’re upset,” Bucky replied, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“It’s okay. I’m not freaking out,” Steve lied.

“You’re bright red and your eyes are big like you’re about to cry,” Bucky countered, not unkindly. It was more in the way a parent reminded their kid to take their lunch to school or something. It was how Bucky spoke to his little sisters when Steve and him had taken them to the park when they’d been learning to ride their bikes and they skinned their knees. It was a patient,  _ caring _ tone, a tone that Steve didn’t deserve right then.

“I’m just nervous about the game this week,” Steve offered. That wasn’t exactly wrong. They were going against the current league champions this week, the day after Homecoming. Everyone except Steve, and especially Bucky, was probably going to be hungover, and unless Steve pulled some sort of Herculean effort out of his ass, they were going to ruin their undefeated streak and lose. Badly.

“Okay, Stevie. You can talk to me about these things, you know. I  _ am _ your co-captain,” Bucky said, his tone a little bit brighter, more teasing, than it had been.

“Maybe I’d be more inclined to talk to you if you stopped smoking,” Steve said, trying his best to join Bucky in his effort to lighten the mood. Steve needed to get out of his head, and he was more than happy to tease Bucky if that was what had to be done.

“How does that logic even work?” Bucky argued good-naturedly, taking a long drag from his cigarette and blowing smoke into the sky above them.

“You can talk better if you’re not talking around a cigarette,” Steve pointed out, gesturing broadly to Bucky’s still-burning cigarette.

Bucky rolled his eyes theatrically. “How does that affect  _ you _ talking to  _ me?” _

“Well, maybe I don’t wanna catch second-hand smoke,” Steve said, changing tactics since Bucky was right about Steve’s shitty first argument.

“Okay, Golden Boy. So afraid of damaging your precious little lungs,” Bucky teased.

“You should be too, if you ever wanna play in the majors. I mean, there’s a reason I beat you in sprints every practice.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest playfully.

“That’s a vicious over-simplification for several reasons. First,” Bucky began, ticking off his list with his fingers, “you’re, like, two inches taller than me, so you cover more ground with each step. Second, you’re still making up for lost time from when you were tiny and I could throw you forty feet without breaking a sweat. You’re hungrier for it than I am. Thirdly, if I’m damaging my lungs so badly, why am I always second in sprints? Lastly, if your second-hand smoke is so bad, how come you  _ are  _ beating me?”

Steve laughed. Bucky should’ve quit baseball for the debate team. He’d give Peggy a run for her money, at least. “Okay, I’ll bite. To address your first and second points, you’re now shorter than I, so shouldn’t you be hungrier at this point? For your third point, it’s because the rest of the team somehow smokes even more than you. Fourthly, it’s because I have a superior respiratory system.”

Bucky outright guffawed in response. “Says the asthmatic! And, side-note, no one on the team smokes more than me. I’m smoking hot.”

Steve rolled his eyes. Bucky was being so ridiculous that the comment wasn’t even triggering a crisis of conscience on Steve’s part. That was such a nice part of being best friends with Bucky; in a few stupid jokes, Bucky could cheer Steve up and calm him down from whatever anxious place Steve wound himself up into.

“You say nothing because you know I’m right,” Bucky said with an air of finality.

“I must have a superior something, seeing as I grew a foot in two years and you came out of the womb only slightly above average and remained that way ever since.”

“I’m not going to make a dick joke because I’m better than that. I will, however, put you in a headlock and give you a noogie,” Bucky announced, placing his bag down gently on the sidewalk.

“Yeah?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, shrugging, before launching himself at Steve.

Steve shrieked, throwing his bag on the ground, and shoved at Bucky good-naturedly, trying to get to Bucky’s sides under his jacket. Bucky’d always been viciously ticklish.

Bucky squealed and dug his fingers into Steve’s hips, the one place where he was ticklish. Steve twisted away and grabbed Bucky around his middle.

“No!” Bucky yelled, laughing.

By the time their tickle-fight was over, Steve was in a good enough mood to ignore both the fact that he was more than half-hard, and the fact that he would have had a panic attack if he’d chosen to comprehend his arousal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I appreciate you and hope you're happy and healthy!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Enjoy some angst!
> 
> Quick CW: There is some light dub con and very light objectification in this chapter. There are more (spoiler-y) details in the endnotes if that's concerning for you.

“Are you sure it’s okay?” Steve asked Peggy. She was right under his chin, adjusting his blush-colored boutonniere. It matched the corsage on Peggy’s wrist beautifully, which in turn complimented her yellow dress. The color scheme made Steve’s pale complexion look a little too pink overall, but Peggy looked gorgeous, and that was what mattered.

“ _ Yes.  _ We look beautiful, love,” Peggy murmured.

She smelled like her favorite perfume, lilacs and magnolia. Steve could breathe that scent in all day, could live in it like it was oxygen. Which was probably a really sappy thought to have during Homecoming pictures where your and your girlfriend’s parents were less than twenty feet away, fawning over them as they snapped photos, but Steve didn’t care.

Steve was just generally in a better mood than he remembered being in for months. He wasn’t even that annoyed by all the photos. Taking pictures usually made him uncomfortable, probably because he had spent fourteen years of his life at least a head and half shorter and fifty pounds lighter than anyone else in the photo. Or because now pretty much every photo was him in his uniform in an “action shot” that was going to be sent to scouts, which made Steve’s stomach roll every time it was mentioned. Either way, pictures usually spelled disaster for Steve. But now, he felt relaxed and calm, even as he felt three pairs of eyes and as many cameras on him.

“Do you like the suit? I know the pocket square doesn’t match the way we talked about but my eyes look better with it, or that’s what Buc-”

“You’re gorgeous, Steve. Always are,” Peggy said quickly, cutting him off.

“That’s you,” Steve mumbled, quietly so the parents wouldn’t hear and gush about them and “young love.”

Peggy looked up at him and beamed. Her full lips were painted a cherry red that made her look even more gorgeous. Her hair was brushed out into shiny ringlets. Her eyes were sparkling, happy and warm and beautiful. The sun was setting behind them. It was absolutely picturesque.

“Kiss her!” Steve’s mom yelled.

Steve rolled his eyes and smiled back down at Peggy. “That okay with you?”

Peggy giggled. “Any time, Rogers.”

“I mean, we do gotta finish up if we’re going to be on time.” They wanted to be as on time for the dance as possible because they were going to have to leave early for the party and Peggy wanted maximum dancing time. The party was an annual tradition: the night of Homecoming, the captains of the baseball team threw a rager. Steve and Bucky had been planning a pretty good party the past few weeks, Steve reasoned. They would fire up Bucky’s hot tub, set up video games, and pick up as much beer, chips, and liquor as they could afford with the 400 dollars the team had managed to scrape together.

It was going to be a pretty nice party, at least from Steve’s perspective. Or, as nice as it could be. The team was facing the current state champions the next day, so Steve had instituted a two-drink limit to make sure no one was too hungover. However, a two drink limit meant that the rager would probably turn into a lame party in which people played soda pong instead of beer pong and headed home early so they could actually drink.

But Bucky’s parents had a nice sound system, and his family would be out of town for the weekend, so they could afford to be a little more stupid shit than they usually would. It would probably be fine, but Steve couldn’t help the niggling bit of anxiety in the back of his head that it was gonna suck and people were gonna be bored out of their minds.

To soothe the feeling, Steve quickly ran through a mental checklist to make sure everything was done. The kegs had been delivered by the team’s junior left-fielder, Sam’s, older brother that afternoon. The chips and popcorn and shit had been set up by Bucky that afternoon, as evidenced by the pictures he’d sent to Steve a few hours ago. The hot tub was up and running; they’d made sure of that last night. Bucky’d thrown enough parties to know to hide the breakables and the valuables. By all counts, it should have been fine, and Steve would be able to just roll up and have fun with his as-sober-as-possible teammates and their girlfriends.

Technically, Steve should have been over there this whole afternoon, but Steve couldn’t give up the offer of meeting Peggy at the lake and taking pictures together. It was, after all, their last Homecoming ever. Still, Steve had left Bucky in the lurch, and it made him nervous. Bucky could be a dumbass about some things. Their sophomore year, he’d thrown a party and forgot to turn on the deck lights and some idiot had slipped and chipped a tooth. Steve didn’t want to deal with that. He had enough on his plate.

At least right now he could focus on the fact that he had the most gorgeous Homecoming date he’d ever seen. In the early-evening sunshine, Peggy looked like she was practically glowing. God, Steve was lucky.

Poor Bucky was taking some nondescript junior girl whom Steve had met once at a party and heard even less about. It wasn’t even an actual date, more of a friend thing than anything. At least, according to Bucky’s complaints about having to buy some random junior whom he wasn’t even into a corsage. Of course, it wasn’t like Bucky could take Natasha, his date for every dance since freshman year, since she’d broken his nose a few months ago and they hadn’t spoken since. Steve still didn’t know what had happened there, and every time he’d asked Bucky’d gone white as a sheet and rapidly changed the subject, so Steve had stopped asking.

“Well?” Steve’s mom called, distracting Steve from staring absently at Peggy’s perfect ski-jump nose. “What’re you waiting for?”

Steve rolled his eyes and leaned down to kiss Peggy, nice and chaste for the parents. Her lips were a little waxy, but soft and plush and nice against Steve’s. They’d shared so many kisses that this wasn’t really anything to write home about, but it was still nice.

“We should get going,” Peggy agreed as they broke the kiss, Steve standing up straighter from how he was bent over her, Peggy settling back down into her not-inconsiderably tall heels.

Steve tucked a strand of Peggy’s hair behind her ear. She half-smiled at him before going over to hug her parents goodbye. Steve trailed behind to his own mother, his arms outstretched.

“My little boy’s all grown up,” Steve’s mom said, laughing, as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Steve towered nearly a foot over her now, but he missed being able to be wrapped in her arms like he was still a kid.

“I’m wearing a monkey suit you paid for and you still come to my baseball games. I hardly think I’m grown up,” Steve replied, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

Steve’s mom waved her hand like she was clearing the words from the air. “You’re wearing a tuxedo and on track to head to the playoffs. This could be your wedding day, you know,” she teased.

Steve flushed, the soles of his feet going itchy and feeling like he was being choked by his stupid cerulean bow tie. That was a lot all at once. It was just Homecoming. It wasn’t like he was getting married, not even a little bit. Peggy wasn’t even wearing white. In fact, Steve wasn’t even sure he was going to marry her at all. It was all a little presumptuous.

Steve’s mom must have noticed his sudden discomfort because her smile softened into a warm, caring expression that she usually reserved for Steve having asthma attacks. “I’m just joking around with you, kiddo. Go have fun.”

Steve nodded, swallowing dryly. She didn’t mean anything by it. It was just a dance. Besides, Steve didn’t even want to think about why that one little tease had set him off so bad. “Bye, mom,” Steve said as unawkwardly as possible. 

“Stay safe! I’ll see you soon!” she replied, hugging him tight one more time.

Steve rolled his eyes lovingly, forcefully pulling his attention away from the rush of nerves he’d felt at the idea that he’d have to marry Peggy. Instead, he focused his attention on her as she finished saying goodbye to her parents. She did look gorgeous. Soft and sweet and welcoming. It wouldn’t be too bad to marry her.

“M’lady?” Steve asked in a teasing voice as Peggy said goodbye to her parents one last time and turned to face him.

“M’lord,” Peggy responded easily, walking over to him.

“Shall we?” Steve held out his arm like a gentleman trying to court someone. It would have been embarrassing with anyone else. Except maybe Bucky, since they were so comfortable with each other and everything.

“Sure.” Peggy had a bright smile on her face as she linked her arm with Steve’s and they walked off to his car. It was peaceful, and an easy smile split Steve’s face as they headed off to the dance

* * *

Steve’s mood had dropped quickly at the dance. The music had been worse than usual this year, giving him a headache almost instantly instead of in his usual half hour. The floor had been packed and he’d been separated from Peggy four times. Steve couldn’t dance for shit, and he most certainly didn’t want to grab some random girl’s hips and grind on her. He wanted to fucking dance with Peggy. Now it was time to head to the party, only an hour or so before the dance ended, and Peggy was missing.

Steve drummed his fingers on the roof of his car impatiently. He was freezing, he had to piss, and most importantly he was running at least twenty minutes late to get to Bucky’s house and host the party. Bucky’d sworn he wasn’t going to drink, both so he could host and so he could be at his best when they took on the current league champions tomorrow, so at least that’d make it easier. Still didn’t make it good that Steve wasn’t there. Besides, knowing Bucky’s track record, Bucky was going to get absolutely hammered anyway. Steve needed to be there to make sure no one fucking accidentally killed themselves or something. Plus, no one else would be enforcing the two-drink limit, and Steve wasn’t about to deal with a hungover team.

Steve could see the scene now. The first members of the team would be arriving now with their girlfriends draped over their sides. Several of them would probably have been pregaming at the dance or just at home, and they’d show up drunk off their asses. Bucky would get roped into doing body shots or trading soda pong out for beer pong or something stupid like that, and he’d get wasted. Then Bucky’d get in the hot tub and motorboat some guy’s poor girlfriend till Steve showed up.

Then, at the game tomorrow, everyone would be hungover. Moving slow, running slow, vomiting in the corner of the dugout while Coach Fury screamed at them. Then they’d lose, badly, and every scout at the game would scoff and cross Steve off their list and he’d be homeless within five years. That might be a little dramatic, sure, but Steve was also sure that it wasn’t  _ too _ far off the mark.

If Steve could just  _ get there, _ it would probably be fine.

But that was a problem, because Peggy was still fucking missing. She had said she just wanted to run to coat check and pee before they headed to the party, but that had been half an hour ago. Steve had tried her cell three times, and texted her twice that amount. He needed to  _ go, _ to fulfill his duties both as team captain and Bucky’s best friend, but he couldn’t exactly just abandon Peggy here.

Steve had been a shit boyfriend the past few weeks; he’d ignored Peggy, accidentally canceled on her, and even kept them from having sex so he could talk to Bucky. He had worked his  _ ass _ off to make tonight perfect, even if they had to leave early so Steve could make it to the party, and it had been going fine. Peggy had even made her peace with the leaving early thing; they’d talked about it ad nauseum, and she’d been calm. But now she was fucking missing, and Steve was close to blowing his top.

Steve pulled out his phone again. Still no texts or calls or anything. He jabbed the call button again, trying to keep his temper in check. He’d always been a little bit of a hothead, but he was usually able to keep it in check with a few well-placed deep breaths. He didn’t want to yell at Peggy or anything. He just wanted her to  _ get here _ so they could go.

It went to her overly cheerful outgoing message again. “This is Peggy! I can’t come to the phone, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you A-S-A-P.” She always spelled out the full word instead of using the acronym. Normally, Steve found that endearing, but right now it just annoyed him.

Steve tried and failed to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “Pegs, it’s me again. Where are you? We need to go.”

“Steve, sorry, sorry!” Peggy’s voice rang out not from the phone, but from about thirty feet away.

Steve looked up, doing his best to take deep breaths so he didn’t yell at her for taking for-fucking-ever and leaving Steve in the dark about where she was.

Peggy was running, or, really, hobbling as fast as she could in her heels over to Steve’s car, her arms out for balance. She looked kind of like a penguin learning to walk. Steve normally would have immediately gone and helped her, carried her, even, if he wasn’t in a tux, but instead he stayed firmly in place by the driver side of the car, still drumming his fingers on the roof.

“Where were you?” Steve asked in what he hoped was an even tone.

“The coat check line was super long, and then Sharon wanted to get into the photobooth, and I couldn’t say no, she’s my cousin and everything, and then the DJ played ‘Riding Dirty’ and I  _ had _ to dance,” Peggy explained in one long breath.

Steve swallowed his annoyance. Peggy had seriously blown him off when it was vitally important, both to him because Bucky was counting on him and he’d already abandoned Bucky once that day, and to the team because if Steve wasn’t there the team would be in shit shape for the game the next day. And she’d done it for “Riding Dirty,” which was a query in and of itself.

“We’re running late,” Steve simply said instead.

Peggy came around to Steve’s side of the car and wrapped her arms around his middle, looking up at him. Steve swallowed down the way he wanted to reprimand her to get in the damn car so they could leave, and instead did his best to smile at her.

“Can I make it up to you, Stevie?” Her voice was purposefully pitched low and soft, the way she knew worked on Steve.

That was pushing it. Steve was too pissed and anxious to get hard in his slacks, anyway. “Maybe later, Pegs. Let’s go. We’re already late.” Steve gave himself a mental high-five for not losing it. Couldn’t Peggy see how nervous he was about being so late? Why the fuck was she trying to have sex right now?

“Stevie,” Peggy whined, trying to press a thigh between Steve’s.

“Peggy, stop.” Steve placed his arms firmly on her shoulders and moved her back a foot or two. He had never been more grateful to be built like a fucking linebacker. “I’m gonna go, okay?” He turned around and sat in the car, slamming the door behind him, trying to keep himself from yelling at Peggy. Pissed as he was, he still loved her. She had probably just made an honest mistake. However, the absolute obliviousness with which Peggy had tried to seduce Steve did irk him more than a little. She knew this mattered, yet she was still ignoring Steve’s wishes. Of course, it pissed Steve off. More than that, though, it made him feel something twist in the pit of his stomach, something like disgust but a little more intense.

Still, Steve loved her and at least they were leaving now. There was no reason to get too upset. It would just make them even more late.

Besides, it wasn’t the end of the world that they were late, after all. People couldn’t get  _ too _ drunk in half an hour, and the only people who showed up on time were the freshman who probably weren’t gonna play anyway. Still, it was a respect thing. Peggy knew Steve needed to leave, but she had spent thirty minutes fucking around with her friends. Was it some kind of revenge for him being a shitty boyfriend?

At least when Steve was being a shitty boyfriend, he texted Peggy or something, communicated with her in  _ some _ way that something had come up. She had been radio silent, and that frustrated Steve.

Peggy came around to the passenger side of the car and slid in, tucking the skirt of her dress around her neatly. Steve usually felt a surge of affection for her when she did something sweet and simple and neat like that, but there was nothing other than a vague feeling of annoyance.

“Why didn’t you text me or something if you were gonna take a while?” Steve heard himself ask as he put the car into gear. That kind of shocked him. He didn’t usually scold Peggy like that. But it was like he couldn’t help himself. Peggy had been kind of shitty, after all.

“I didn’t  _ think _ it would take a while,” Peggy muttered. Steve glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was buried in her phone, texting someone. “You should know that I wouldn’t waste your time like that, Steve.”

Steve tried to remind himself what his mom always said when he was pissed. Something about taking a breath and thinking about his actions. The words in his head fell flat, though, and instead he said, “I guess. But once you knew it would, couldn’t you text?” Steve knew he sounded like a whiny, pissy toddler, but he couldn’t help himself. He was mad, and he was stressed. He didn’t want the party to go shittily and be remembered as a shit team captain.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I just forgot, okay?” Steve was probably projecting, but Peggy’s tone sounded full of apathy. Steve took a slow breath, trying to remind himself the stupid thing they’d said in Driver’s Ed, that driving angry was just like driving drunk, but it wasn’t quite working.

The party was one of the big morale boosting events before the last few games of the season. After tomorrow, there were only two more games before playoffs. It wasn’t like the majors or anything, where you played in series so if the team had an off day it didn’t matter too much; the team had three more games until it became effectively sudden death. And tomorrow was almost certainly going to be a loss since everyone would be hungover because  _ Steve wasn’t there to stop them, _ which meant that the team had to win one of the last two games in order to qualify for the playoffs. Then there were four playoff games before the championship.

Steve sucked in a quick, sharp breath. Even if all went perfectly, there were only six more weeks until the entire season was over. Until the only thing that really mattered to Steve in high school was over. Just like that.

The party  _ needed _ to go well so the team was excited and motivated to play well. Even if Steve was instituting a two-drink limit and limiting everyone to soda pong, it still needed to be fun. Steve needed morale to be boosted, and now he wasn’t there to make sure that happened. He had every right to be mad.

“I have responsibilities, Peggy. I need morale to be high, and this party was going to do that,” Steve said after several long moments of trying to remind himself about why he loved Peggy and why it was important to assume best intent.

“It’s a party, Steve. It’s not the be-all, end-all,” Peggy replied flippantly.

Okay. The apathy there was definitely not imagined. Steve had to bite his tongue to keep from scolding her again even more harshly. In lieu of that, he said in his best I’m-in-charge-of-conflict-resolution-despite-having-no-idea-what-I’m-doing-because-I’m-the-captain voice, “But it would certainly help me look better if we’re at our best. You know just as well as I do that if I’m not there, Bucky’s not gonna do shit to enforce the two-drink limit. We can’t win with a hungover team, Pegs.” Steve kept his eyes carefully trained on the road and his hands firmly wrapped around the steering wheel to keep his temper in check.

“It’s a  _ party,  _ Steve. If people are drunk, people are drunk.”

Steve glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was still buried in her phone. It was like she didn’t care at all that this mattered to Steve.

“We’re playing the league champions tomorrow. We need to be at our best. You know that,” Steve said stubbornly. He knew that he probably wasn’t being fair, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Peggy was always lovely and dedicated and patient with Steve, and the one time she wasn’t, Steve was close to flying off the handle. Still, it felt like she wasn’t even trying to be empathetic.

“So you’ll lose. It’s one game, Steve,” Peggy said. Her voice was dangerously close to whining, and Steve bit his tongue. It was clear he really cared about this, and Peggy was effectively ignoring him.

“It’s a fucking important one, Pegs. We’re undefeated,” Steve said sharply, Peggy’s flippant attitude causing him to quickly lose his battle with his temper.

“Why don’t you just relax tonight and go to bed early? You’re so stressed already.”

Steve bit back the less than kind response he wanted to retort. “Please don’t fucking patronize me, Peggy. The party is  _ supposed _ to be relaxing, anyway.”

“How is it relaxing? You look like you’re about to blow a fucking gasket, Steve.”

“I just don’t want to be late. I don’t want to let anyone down,” Steve said. He glanced at at the clock on the dash. He was almost forty five minutes late.

“You’re not letting anyone down by taking a night off,” Peggy said, still in that patronizing tone.

Peggy hadn’t even said anything that rude. If anything, her comments were just that of a caring girlfriend. But the way she was buried in her phone, and the way she hadn’t even really looked at Steve, the way she’d blown him off, the way she’d tried to get in his pants to distract him, was starting to make Steve’s skin itch all over. It felt like he was covered in ants. His face and neck felt hot, and his throat was burning. He didn’t even know why he was so upset, only that he was.

The only time Steve had ever remembered feeling like this was when he was pushed into a trash can in elementary school for no reason other than he was small. It was a righteous anger that stemmed from a feeling of being deeply wronged. Except Steve couldn’t even tell himself what Peggy had done to wrong him so severely. Everyone flaked sometimes. Except now Steve’s blood was practically boiling. Steve had no idea what had set him off so bad, nor what could calm him down. All his deep breathing and shit wasn’t helping. It was just making him more pissed off because now he had more chances to look at Peggy bury herself in her phone and answer him without even looking at him.

“You might not think so, but you have  _ no _ idea what I’m going through, Peggy! I need this season to go well!”

“Steve. You can let your fledgling baseball career go for a minute, and take a break. We all know you think you’re Babe Ruth or something, but just let off the gas pedal once. You’re just a high school ball-player who was pretty okay once. It’s not gonna make or break your college apps.”

Steve balked at that. As much as he wanted, he couldn’t just let it go. Baseball was his ticket to college. God knew he was too broke to afford it any other way. And Peggy  _ knew _ that.

“Yes it will, Peggy. Not all of us are perfect.” Steve’s feet itched to press the gas pedal.  _ Jesus Christ, _ this light was horrendously long. “Not all of us can be fucking valedictorian.”

“I’m not saying you should be. However, if you ever worked hard at anything except baseball, you could probably do well enough in school to go to college without using baseball as a crutch.” Peggy was looking at him now, her phone forgotten in her lap and her arms crossed protectively over her middle.

Steve took a quick breath. How  _ dare _ she say that? Steve worked his ass off every day to do well in school and stay eligible. It wasn’t his fault facts didn’t fucking stick in his head the way fielding calls did. But he didn’t drink or smoke or get high or anything anyone else did. He tried his fucking hardest. It felt like Peggy was actively kicking him. The fact that she didn’t realize how hard Steve worked felt like a hundred kicks in the ribs while he had an asthma attack.

“I fucking work hard every day. Not everything comes easy to everyone,” Steve spat. He knew he sounded nasty, but he didn’t care. Peggy didn’t see how hard he fucking worked at all, so she probably didn’t even care about how hard Steve had worked to keep his temper in check until this point.

“It doesn’t come easy to me, Steve. I just work at it, which you don’t do,” Peggy retorted defensively.

It was like something clicked in Steve’s head. The itch under his skin was getting worse, and quickly. It felt like electricity was arcing its way up his spine and into his head, preventing him from forming coherent thoughts. He wanted to fucking punch his windshield to try and expel it.

“You don’t work hard! You just micromanage everyone until they make your life easier! I didn’t want to fucking shell out a hundred bucks for a fucking tux, but I fucking did to make you happy. I don’t even like going to the fucking dances, but I do because you make me! I fucking hate AP Psych, but I took it so we’d have a class together. I fuck you when I don’t even want to just because you’re horny! You have no idea how to treat a person like an equal, so you micromanage them until they hate you!”

The words were flying off Steve’s tongue before he could school them into something calm or even vaguely constructive. He was just insulting Peggy because she insulted him. They were like two third-graders on the playground, just trading mean words for fun.

Peggy was quiet, nonresponsive to Steve’s explosion.

Steve rolled his eyes coldly and smacked his steering wheel. “When the  _ fuck _ does this light change?” he growled to himself. It felt like he’d been sitting there for hours, and no one had passed. The light had remained red, and even the road behind him was empty. It was fitting. Steve felt angry, sure, but more than that he felt crushingly alone. He had always thought Peggy understood the pressure he was under, and that’s why she was so patient with him. Instead, she’d thought of him as a disappointment all along.

“I’m sorry if that’s how you feel.” Peggy’s voice was quiet and shaking. Steve turned to look at her. She was staring at the empty road ahead of them. Her brown eyes were big and wet with tears that had yet to spill. Steve knew he was supposed to feel bad, but instead he just felt cold inside.

Steve took a deep breath. It was finally fucking working. The tension was draining from his shoulders, his biceps, his hips. However, the anger was being replaced with shame and hurt. Shame from the reality of what he’d just said to Peggy sinking in. He didn’t hate her. He was mad at her, sure, but he didn’t hate her. Hurt from what she’d said to him. He worked so fucking hard to be a good player, a good student, a good person, and it was like she couldn’t have cared less.

“I’m gonna take you home, okay?” Steve said softly. If he spoke any louder and broke the corded tension in the car, he would break down crying, and he wasn’t ready to do that yet.

“Thanks,” Peggy replied just as quietly, her voice wobbling softly.

Steve spared her one more glance. The tears were just starting to spill over on her face, making her mascara run. Steve didn’t want to look at it anymore. It made his heart twist painfully. Thankfully, blissfully, the light chose that moment to change and Steve pulled away to take Peggy home.

They didn’t speak the rest of the drive, which Steve honestly didn’t mind too much. He was still reeling from their fight. It wasn’t even a fight, more of a snit, but Steve’s heart was still aching. They had never spoken to each other like that. They’d had little arguments, sure, about whose art was better, who had better taste in music, where to go for dinner, but never one that went for the other’s person. Never one that made so many low blows. Never one that made Steve feel so raw and exposed, like a snail ripped from its shell, naked and terrified.

Steve was grateful when he pulled up in front of Peggy’s house and Peggy slipped out without a word. He needed to get to Bucky’s, and fast. Not to police the party or anything though. More just because Steve needed a fucking drink, and that was the closest place that’d serve to minors. He just needed some . . .  _ distance _ from this, and alcohol was a fast way to get that.

A headache began brewing between Steve’s temples as he made the short drive to Bucky’s house, but he ignored it. It was made worse as he parked by the fact that Steve could hear the pounding bass from whatever shitty trap artist Bucky was blaring on his parents’ nice sound system, but he still ignored it. He just wanted to get inside and grab some tequila.

Normally, Steve would be freaking out about the neighbors calling the cops about the music and them getting caught for underage drinking and suspended for the rest of the season. Right now, though, Steve couldn’t bring himself to care.

Instead, Steve went into Bucky’s house with a single-minded focus: to drink as much as possible until he threw up in one of Bucky’s parents’ potted plants.

* * *

Steve didn’t really get drunk. It just wasn’t his thing, what with the pressure to be at his physical peak and everything. He didn’t even really like alcohol outside of the occasional beer or two. The few times he had been drunk, he had just been sleepy and kind of annoyed at all the loud people around him. The last time he’d been drunk, he’d thrown up in a bowl of Cheetos and then taken a nap on Peggy’s lap.

But now, Steve was hammered and  _ loving _ it. The more he drank, the less Peggy’s words stung. The more he mindlessly tossed back whiskey, the less shame he felt about saying he hated Peggy. Drinking was  _ working, _ and Steve was. Here. For. It.

He had thrown the soda pong idea out as soon as he’d arrived, and he’d set up a huge table of actual beer pong instead. Steve then lost beer pong badly, on purpose, just so he could have an excuse to drink more. He’d done shots with Tony, shots with Sam, and even made margaritas with a few of the team’s girlfriends.

A few people had raised an eyebrow at Steve’s flagrant disregard for the two-drink limit that no one was following anyway, but Steve had shown them the finger and they had let him be. He hadn’t seen Bucky at all, but that wasn’t too unusual. Bucky was probably in the hot tub on his deck, ostensibly to make sure no one drowned, but really to ogle at every girl in the hot tub’s tits in their bikinis.

Bucky’s date had skedaddled a few hours ago, passing Steve right as he was entering. Again, normally Steve would have made polite conversation and made sure she had a safe ride home, but instead Steve had just wanted to get inside and drink till he pissed himself.

Steve was probably two thirds of the way there, he figured. He had an unpleasant roiling sensation in his stomach, and his vision was spinning, but he could still walk fairly steadily thanks to years of athletics, and wasn’t throwing up on anyone yet.

The party had died down in the last half-hour or so. He had gone from mingling with people and drinking socially to sitting in the dark, nursing a bottle of Jameson on Bucky’s plush couch while watching  _ Property Brothers _ with a bunch of the infield who were stoned out of their gourds. Clint, their pitcher, had offered Steve a joint when they had been originally rolled, but Steve had politely declined. As much as he might have wanted to, smoking with his asthma was a shit idea.

On the show, Drew was just finishing refreshing a backsplash with new charcoal grout when Steve felt a soft tap on his shoulder.

Steve turned around, startled. The room was quiet except for the drone of the show, and everyone else was zoned or passed out. Steve was sure he’d have heard someone walking behind him, especially if they were half as drunk and clumsy as Steve was.

Steve looked up, confused, and saw Bucky’s face. Bucky was beautiful in this lighting, the soft glow from the TV hiding his bloodshot eyes that he got when he drank too much. His nose still looked a little red from how Natasha had broken it a few months ago. Bucky had a little bit of stubble along his chin and jaw, and Steve ached to touch it, feel the roughness rub on the pads of his fingertips. Steve had never been able to grow anything other than a pedo-stache, and had always been jealous of Bucky’s patchy beard.

Best of all in this lighting, though, were Bucky’s lips. Full and plush, they made Steve feel warm all over. Steve remembered how their dream counterparts had looked wrapped around his dick, and Steve was just barely sober enough to hold back a moan. He wanted to touch Bucky’s chapped lips. Not anything sexual or anything. They just looked  _ so . . .  _ touchable. Steve giggled at his internal lack of eloquence. Nothing like being drunk off his ass and confronted with the object of his dream’s affections to chase away a guy’s words.

Something felt wrong about wanting to do that so badly, but Steve couldn’t quite put his finger on it, so he just ignored it.

“Steve?”

Steve watched Bucky’s lips, rapt, as they formed his name.

Steve raised the bottle of Jameson to his lips and took a deep swig to steady himself.

“Steve, what are you doing?” Bucky asked. His voice was too loud for the quiet drone of  _ Property Brothers, _ and Steve cringed.

“Shhh,” Steve replied roughly, taking another sip.

“What happened to your two-drink limit, buddy?” Bucky asked gently. He wasn’t normally this tactful when he was drunk. However, Steve, too, was probably just as drunk as Bucky, and thus couldn’t tell what his affect was, anyway.

“Fuck that.  _ Fuck it.”  _ Fuck word was the right word for the way Steve was feeling. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” Steve started giggling. Fuck was a fun word. He liked the way the u felt between his back teeth.

“How much have you had to drink, Steve?” Bucky rested his arms on the back of the couch. He had nice arms. Muscular from years of playing sports and offseason conditioning. Steve wanted to kiss the pale blue veins on the inside of Bucky’s wrists. He should do that next time in the dream. Bucky would probably like it.

Still, something seemed off about that thought, but it didn’t seem to matter right then. What mattered was that Bucky was right in front of Steve, and Steve, in his drunken state,  _ wanted. _

“Fuck,” Steve said in response, grinning madly. Fuck was a nice word. It was perfect. Fuck a two drink limit. Fuck trying to push his dream down and suppress it. He  _ liked _ his dream. After all, it felt better when he woke up rutting against the sheets than it felt when he was trying to ignore it.

“Do you know where Peggy is, bud?”

There was the off feeling. It was Peggy. It was his stupid fight with Peggy and the way she said Steve never worked hard for anything. Well, he did work hard. He had to actively work hard every time he saw Bucky not to fall into his arms like some shmuck in a Disney princess movie. Peggy didn’t even know the half of it.

Besides, fuck Peggy.  _ Fuck Peggy. _ And not in a fun way, either. She had been so mean to him. Steve sat up straight suddenly, gesticulating wildly as he planned to explain why Peggy fucking sucked. The bottle of Jameson slipped in Steve’s grip as he swung his arm, and a glug of the whiskey landed on Clint, who was sprawled out next to Steve.

Clint groaned weakly, batting his middle finger in Steve’s direction.

“Steve? Any idea?” Bucky pressed.

Why didn’t Bucky understand why Peggy sucked? Couldn’t he accept that and move on?

_ “Fuck  _ Peggy,” Steve groaned, taking a fuller swig of the Jameson. He relished in the way it burned going down.

Someone across the room clicked a lighter and the smell of crappy pot wafted through the room. Steve inhaled deeply. He should’ve accepted the joint from Clint earlier. Steve didn’t like smelling it but not having it. Maybe he could get high off second-hand smoke. Steve took a deep breath, not liking the way his chest felt tight and crackled when he did.

“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky groaned, shoving a hand through his hair. “Do you have your inhaler?”

Steve shook his head. He was pretty sure it was in his jacket pocket, but his hand felt impossibly lazy and heavy and lethargic, and he didn’t want to lift it.

“Okay, dumbass. Let’s get you some fresh air.” Bucky leaned over the couch and yanked Steve up from under his armpits. It was an awkward angle, given that Steve was 250 pounds of near dead weight, but eventually he was on his feet, half walking and half leaning on Bucky as they hobbled to the deck.

The hot tub was off, the cover pulled tightly on, and the deck empty. The air was cool and fresh in Steve’s lungs, and Steve gasped it in gratefully. He hadn’t realized how tight his chest was. Steve leaned over the railing, practically panting. He breathed deeply until he was shivering in the night air despite the fact that he was somehow still dressed in his full tux.

“Steve? Feeling any better?” Bucky asked after a few minutes.

Steve nodded mutely. He was freezing, but he wasn’t wheezing anymore. He took a sip from the Jameson. That’d warm him up. Steve’d read that somewhere. Or, he was pretty sure he had, at least.

“Do you know where Peggy is, Steve?” Bucky’s voice was the same as the one parents used to talk to an annoying toddler. Steve wanted to scream with frustration. He wasn’t some drunk idiot who needed to be taken care of. He was  _ fine. _

“I’m  _ fine. _ Peggy and I had a fight so I took her home. Happy?” Steve asked bitterly, drinking even more.

Bucky’s eyes suddenly widened with shock and anger, and Steve felt fear grip him icily. Bucky couldn’t be mad at him. Bucky was never mad at him. He could get annoyed, sure but he was never mad. Steve couldn’t handle it right now if the person who meant the most to him was mad. He could already feel tears prickling his eyes despite his best efforts to swallow them down.

“Steve, you  _ drove _ like this?!” Bucky asked incredulously.

Steve sighed in relief. Bucky wasn’t mad!

Bucky’s hand suddenly gripped Steve’s wrist tight, right above his grip on the bottle, though, and that made Steve feel cagey all over again. Why was Bucky touching him so roughly? It didn’t quite hurt, but it didn’t feel good, either. Bucky’s hand was warm on Steve’s wrist. Steve could trace every callous on Bucky’s hand from the touch alone. It felt like the grip was burning Steve’s skin like a brand. 

“No! I wasn’t drunk yet,” Steve explained, trying to twist his way out of Bucky’s grasp.

“Thank God for that. What did you fight about, anyway?” Bucky’s eyes were round and worried, and Steve hated it. Bucky was usually so self-involved when he was drunk. Couldn’t he do that now and leave Steve alone?

“Nothing. Let  _ go _ of me, Bucky.” Steve yanked his wrist back at the same time Bucky released his wrist. The movement, combined with Steve’s drunkenly loose grip on the bottle made the Jameson go flying out of Steve’s hand and shatter on the ground, leaving shards of glass scattered on the ground like Steve was standing in the middle of some avant garde chandelier.

Bucky inhaled sharply and ran a hand through his tangled hair. “Jesus, Steve, you’re drunker than I thought. Stay here, okay? You’re in bare feet, and I don’t want you to get cut up. I’ll clean this up. I’m gonna get a broom.”

Bucky made a move to walk inside, and it made Steve’s gut twist. He didn’t want Bucky to go. He didn’t want to be left out here, cold and drunk and surrounded by shattered glass. Peggy had already left him alone. He couldn’t handle that right now. He wanted Bucky near him.

Steve lunged for Bucky’s arm to stop him. He wrapped one hand around the bicep and yanked. Bucky stumbled a foot or two until he was in Steve’s space. There were barely two inches between their noses, and most of that was because Bucky was shorter than Steve, not because there was any physical distance.

Their chests were brushing, and Steve could feel Bucky’s heart jackrabbiting. His lips looked so perfect, chapped and pink and full. So different than Peggy’s overly smooth, waxy ones. So human. So Bucky that it made Steve’s sides ache. Bucky was here. He wasn’t going. He would be nice to Steve because he always was. Bucky never made Steve feel inadequate. Bucky was completely trustworthy. And so, so beautiful, like he was sculpted out of clay.

Peggy had always been made of porcelain, but Bucky had always been more solid, more real, more present than that. Bucky was safe in the same way that a long, hard hug was. Solid and warm and good. Steve wanted that so bad.

“I wanna kiss you,” Steve confessed, sudden and quiet like a silenced gunshot. The words had almost caught in Steve’s throat, but they had made their way out before Steve could choke on them.

Bucky’s eyes went wide and soft like a baby doe. Steve loved those eyes. He loved how gentle they were, how they’d crinkle around the edges when Bucky laughed. He wanted to kiss Bucky there, too, softly, so Bucky would feel comfortable.

“I . . .” Bucky trailed off, not breaking eye contact with Steve. Bucky swallowed, and Steve watched his Adam’s apple rise and settle. Steve wanted to kiss there too. “Steve, you’re drunk,” Bucky finally said, his voice dry.

Steve felt like his chest was being kicked in. Bucky was supposed to be solid and safe. He wasn’t supposed to reject Steve. Not like Peggy had when she’d made Steve feel like he was nothing.

“Please?” Steve mumbled after a moment, his throat tight like he was about to cry.

Bucky licked his lips. Steve felt a tugging in the pit of his stomach and his groin, something more sharp and painful than simple arousal.

“Okay, Stevie. Are you sure? You’re not gonna regret this for the rest of your life or something?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, then. I trust you.”

Steve leaned forward gratefully, lifting his hand to tangle in Bucky’s hair. It wasn’t wet like it should have been if he was in the hot tub. Instead, it was dry and warm and soft. So, so soft. Softer than Steve had dared imagine. Like silk, or velvet, or the way river rocks felt when they’d been sitting in the sun. So perfect.

Steve’s other hand went to Bucky’s chin, feeling the dimple there and the little bit of stubble growing in, rough against his hands.

Bucky’s hands came to wrap around Steve’s back, one pressing between his shoulder blades and the other resting on Steve’s waist. Each gently pushed Steve forward, an invitation rather than a pressure.

And by god, did Steve take that invitation.

Steve ducked his head and gently, gently, like he was petting a newborn kitten, pressed his lips to Bucky’s. It almost tickled at first, it was so gentle. Just their lips, brushing barely. Then Steve felt Bucky shift, pushing up onto his tiptoes, and then they were really kissing.

Bucky’s lips were warm and incredibly soft for how chapped they were. His tongue was wet and warm and inviting. He felt real and alive and raw under Steve. Steve expected the bitter taste of alcohol to sit in Bucky’s mouth, but he just tasted warmth. Bucky’s thumbs rubbed circles on Steve through his shirt, and Steve copied the motion on Bucky’s jaw.

The roiling, tugging sensation was back in Steve’s gut with a vengeance as Bucky crept a warm hand under Steve’s shirt. Steve broke the kiss to gasp when his stomach gave a mighty tug.

_ “Fuck,” _ Steve gasped, his stomach alight with the way it was twisting.

Except, the tugging in Steve’s stomach wasn’t butterflies or love or even horniness. It was fucking nausea. His bottle of Jameson and beer pong and shots and margaritas were catching up with him. Steve gently extracted himself from Bucky’s gentle grip to lean over the railing and vomit.

The drinks, shitty as they tasted going down, felt even fucking worse coming back up, acidic and rough and sickly sweet. Steve heaved, his palms growing sweaty and his muscles shaking as he vomited everything back up.

Steve turned back around, a sheepish grin on his face. He wasn’t quite sure how to apologize for ruining what was shaping up to be the best kiss of his life, but by fucking God was he going to try.

His apology died in his throat, however, when he realized he was alone on the balcony.

Bucky was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW (con't): Steve and Bucky kiss even though Steve is drunk and thinks Bucky is, too. Consent is obtained, but both are seemingly drunk, so neither is actually able to consent. Steve also imagines Bucky objectifying women. It's very quick (two sentences), but if it bothers you, make sure to take that into account before reading!
> 
> Also, the whiskey that Steve is drinking, Jameson, has the phrase "sine metu" on every bottle, which means without fear, and I think we can certainly agree that Steve finally embodied that in this chapter.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and I hope you liked it!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some relatively intense self-hating thoughts in this chapter. If that's an issue, please read the end notes for more (spoiler-filled) details before reading the chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

Steve wasn’t not quite sure what woke him up from the first dreamless sleep he’d had in months. It could have been the dry throat, the rolling nausea, or the headache placed squarely in between his temples, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He could have woken up due to the fact that he was face to face with the smirking face of David Wright, Bucky’s favorite baseball player and Steve’s least. Steve was on his side, facing a garishly orange wall. It was only once Steve managed to flop onto his back, stomach heaving and head protesting mightily, that he realized he was in Bucky’s bedroom.

Given that Steve was a die-hard Yankees fan, he would have rolled his eyes at Bucky’s Mets-heavy decorating choices, but Steve’s stomach gave a dangerous lurching feeling, and he just groaned weakly instead, clutching his belly. 

A small mercy was that he was at least out of his uncomfortable tux that he had been in last night due to the insipid Homecoming dress code. Now, he was stripped to his black boxer-briefs and white undershirt, with Bucky’s Milky Way-patterned comforter drawn up to his chin. Steve was shivering and his stomach was aching. Worst of all, even though he felt like fucking death, Steve had a painfully clear memory of the past night.

He remembered fighting with Peggy. He remembered her saying that he never worked hard. He remembered yelling that he hated her. That memory still, even though Steve was in such physical discomfort, made him pinch with embarrassment and shame. He loved her, and he’d completely trashed that in favor of saying whatever he wanted to hurt her. He was awful, and, worst of all, he had no idea how to apologize to her.

Then Steve’d drunk his _ ass _ off despite having a fucking game the next day. Today. He had a game today, and he was so hungover that the meager light filtering through Bucky’s blackout curtains had Steve questioning whether he would survive thirty more seconds with his eyes open.

And, of course, Steve remembered his fucking kiss with Bucky. Steve had no idea what he’d been thinking. He had a girlfriend. One little fight didn’t change that. And Bucky was Steve’s _ best friend. _ Best friend since before either was even born. Steve had ruined that with one stupid kiss.

Not to mention the fact that the kiss had felt better than any other kiss Steve had ever had, including any with Peggy. Bucky’s mouth had been hot and welcoming and gentle in a way Steve hadn’t known Bucky was capable of. Steve remembered Bucky’s hands, broad and warm, pressing into Steve’s back. He remembered the seemingly impossibly silky softness of Bucky’s hair. Steve remembered how _ right _ it had felt.

The rightness scared him the worst. Kisses with Peggy had never been bad, had always been warm and welcoming and soft, but they had never just felt like a key fitting into a lock the way it did with Bucky. Steve wasn’t even sure he was attracted to men, but now it felt like he had confirmation that he was, at the very least, highly, _ highly _ attracted to Bucky.

That made Steve feel viscerally sick, in a way that was again separate and worse from the rolling in his guts and the shame he felt from telling Peggy he hated her. It was like Steve was Swiss army knife, with different types of discomfort and hurt that could be pulled out depending on what, specifically, he felt awful about at any given moment.

The only feeling Steve could find that was vaguely close to the illness he felt right then was the way he’d felt after Bucky had disappeared the night previous. He’d felt empty and raw, but somehow simultaneously loose and frayed, like an old stuffed animal shoved into the back of a closet when its owner went off to college.

Steve didn’t even have any idea where Bucky had gone. Steve remembered throwing up after breaking the kiss, and then turning to see that Bucky had vanished. Steve had looked for Bucky half-heartedly before running up to Bucky’s bedroom and burying himself in Bucky’s sheets, desperate to catch his scent again in Steve’s drunken state. He’d even fallen asleep like that, cocooned in Bucky’s flannel sheets and star-patterned duvet, still in his own tux. Steve had no idea who’d stripped him and tucked him neatly into bed like this. God knows Steve wasn’t sober enough to do it himself.

Steve fought another round of nausea with a countering wave of grief for what had happened the last night. Steve had ruined his and Bucky’s friendship. Compounding the shame, Bucky wasn’t in his own room. Steve was there instead, which meant that Steve had probably chased Bucky out of there after trashing their nearly eighteen years of friendship. Steve was a monster.

He probably would have cried out of shame and self-pity if his stomach hadn’t continued to roll at that very moment. Steve needed to lean over to hurl into the trash can that Bucky thankfully kept by his bedside to avoid puking all over Bucky’s bed and making things even worse.

As he heaved, Steve was vaguely aware of the bedroom door creaking open and soft, socked footsteps stepping in.

Nothing was coming up except for bile in the back of Steve’s throat, so he just swallowed miserably, his throat clicking with how dry it was. He shoved himself up into a sitting position, finding himself face to face with Bucky who was standing in the doorway, carrying a huge tray. The tray was heavy with a truly gigantic McDonald’s bag and no fewer than three different colors of Gatorade and a hefty orange Nalgene water bottle.

_ Shit, _ Steve thought savagely. Bucky must have thought there was something else going on other than a stupid, drunken kiss, and was trying to be a good partner. Steve knew breakfast in bed was Bucky’s signature move to keep the girls he slept with happy. Fuck, even Steve had taken the very same page out of Bucky’s book the first time Steve’d slept with Peggy.

But Bucky didn’t realize that this wasn’t the same as wooing, or a one-night stand, or anything, really. Bucky must not have realized that their kiss was an accident, a mistake, possibly the worst mistake Steve had ever made. Worse than cheating on his eighth-grade Spanish final. Worse than going to art camp throughout middle and high school instead of baseball camp. Worse than waiting for the locker room to be empty before showering only to have all his stuff stolen.

“Sleep well?” Bucky asked, smiling brightly.

Steve ran a hand through his greasy hair, grimacing at it. He must smell like shit, like day-old beer and vomit. He was pretty sure he hadn’t even brushed his teeth since vomiting the night previous. His chest ached like there was an elephant balancing its weight into one stiletto-clad foot and leaning directly onto Steve’s sternum.

“God, Buck, I don’t even know how to say this,” Steve began slowly.

Bucky’s smile fell, replaced by an inquisitive frown.

“Last night was a huge mistake. I don’t even know how to apologize for it.” Steve couldn’t bear to watch Bucky’s face fall any longer. Steve dropped his gaze to Bucky’s comforter instead and absently traced the shape of the Milky Way, feeling his face go painfully red.

“Steve, it’s not that big a deal. Everyone gets drunk sometimes,” Bucky said coolly.

“But I shouldn’t have . . . done that. It wasn’t fair, to you or me. Or Peggy. Especially Peggy.” The last part hurt worse, like the elephant on Steve’s sternum had started jumping. Steve felt even more shame roll up his spine like a storm rumbling over the horizon. It made his ribs ache and the pit of his stomach feel soft and squishy like overripe fruit.

“What does Peggy have to do with it?” Bucky’s voice was calm but quizzical. He sounded like he did when he got caught cheating on a biology test and was trying to play dumb, but with even more honest, utter confusion laced in.

Steve snapped his gaze up. Bucky could be thoughtless, but he was by no means stupid. How could he not see that Peggy had _ everything _ to do with the kiss?

“Steve? What does Peggy have to do with you getting fucking hammered the night before the game? Like, it was a stupid choice, but I don’t think it was the biggest deal to _ Peggy, _ at least.”

Steve looked Bucky over. Bucky looked actually, truly confused. His eyes were narrowed, and his mouth was twisted into a little frown. Steve really had to wrench his eyes away from Bucky’s pink lips, and that made him feel somehow sicker. What was Bucky playing at here?

“Steve, everyone gets drunk sometimes. Really, it’s not that big a deal. What’s going on?”

Steve licked his painfully chapped lips. He would kill for some of the Gatorade on that tray right now. He had no idea to play this when Bucky was seemingly pretending like the whole thing had never happened. Avoidance was a fine strategy for a minute, but not for the long-term. However, Bucky did seem honestly perplexed by Steve’s question. “What do you think happened last night?” Steve asked after a long, painfully silent moment.

Bucky laughed, a real, full belly laugh, like the kind he only really made when Steve was tickling him. “I wish I could tell you. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember anything after getting in the hot tub at, like, the beginning of the party. I woke up on my sister’s beanbag chair cuddling a bottle of margarita mix. I went downstairs, and everyone had pretty much cleared out. Then I went up here, and you were in my bed. I was gonna wake you up and ask what happened last night, but then I smelled the alcohol on you, and I didn’t want to wake you up and have you vomit on me. I figured we had agreed that you’d stay the night since you were probably too drunk to drive.”

Steve nodded gratefully. Bucky didn’t remember anything. Steve was okay! He might eat himself alive with guilt, but at least he wouldn’t have to hurt Bucky. He wouldn’t even really have to tell Peggy now since there weren’t repercussions. Of course, if he didn’t, he probably wouldn’t be able to sleep because of the guilt, but that was a problem for another time, for a less hungover Steve.

“Then I realized this was, like, Baby’s First Hangover,” Bucky continued, “so I went to Mickey D’s and rustled us up some grub. You hungry?” He held up the tray like it was a peace offering.

Steve’s stomach growled at the smell. As much as he wanted to vomit, he also really, really wanted some fucking hashbrowns. “Yeah,” Steve said after a minute. He already felt guilty pretending like nothing had happened. But, he reasoned furiously, he hadn’t told Bucky about his dream for the nearly-five months it had been happening, and this was almost the same thing.

Not that lying by omission was good in any case.

It wasn’t the same at all, though, not really, and this lie was much more cruel and hurtful to everyone involved, especially Bucky. But Steve couldn’t bring himself to ruin the happy little bubble that had been created by Bucky being blackout drunk. If Steve told Bucky what had happened, Steve would ruin everything. His best friend. His relationship. Probably the team’s chances at finals, since he and Bucky were co-captains and all.

Steve knew he was a deeply selfish person, but he couldn’t make himself spit the words out. He didn’t want to lose his best friend and girlfriend. He just couldn’t make himself.

Steve deserved everything bad in the world. He deserved for Bucky and Peggy to find out and never speak to him again. He deserved to lose any chance at a scholarship. He deserved for his mom to be disappointed in him. He deserved for Bucky to take away all the nice, expensive replacement gear he’d bought for Steve.

But Steve was weak, and he couldn’t fucking bring these things upon himself. Instead, he was sitting like a passive asshole, hurting everyone around him so he could be liked a little while longer.

“Steve, you feeling okay? You look like you’re about to pass out,” Bucky remarked, his voice soft and gentle. Steve’s headache thanked him silently.

Steve nodded. He was not feeling okay, emotionally or physically, but he couldn’t exactly tell Bucky what was up. _ God, _ Steve was an asshole.

Bucky sat down on the foot of his own bed and cracked open the grease-stained bag. It smelled strongly of things that were awful for you and would make Steve feel even more like shit systemically, but Steve was starving, so he gorged himself, eating a whole McMuffin in two bites while barely chewing.

“It’s so good,” Steve groaned around a mouthful of sandwich.

Bucky laughed, his mouth equally full. “I’m glad you like it. This, plus as much Gatorade as you can stomach, is the ultimate hangover cure. I swear by it.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully. Maybe it was placebo, but he could already feel his headache fading. He chugged half a Gatorade in one go, dripping on his white undershirt just a little bit.

Steve hummed after downing another sandwich and hashbrown, his stomach finally settling despite the heavy food. “Buck, do you have any idea where my phone is? I never, um, texted my mom where I ended up.”

Bucky nodded, reaching into the pockets of his own sweats and passing Steve’s ugly new flip phone to him. “I found it in the fucking fridge this morning,” Bucky said, smiling broadly, his teeth and tongue tinged blue from the Gatorade.

Steve had no memory of his phone ending up in the fridge, but he’d also crawled into Bucky’s bed just to smell him, so who knew what Steve’s mental state was last night? 

“Thanks,” Steve mumbled as he self-consciously thumbed it open. Bucky was the one who had purchased the phone for Steve in the first place, since all of Steve’s shit had been stolen, and it never failed to make Steve infinitely uncomfortable, even more so now that Steve was doing _ this _ to Bucky while Bucky had never been anything but kind to him. Steve had a few texts from his mom, including one from nearly two in the morning. Steve flushed, opening the conversation and squinting to read the tiny screen. It read, “Bucky told me you’re staying over. Love you! See you at the game tomorrow!”

Steve smiled self-consciously and flushed down to his belly button. Even drunk off his fucking ass the way he must have been last night, Bucky had still taken care of Steve. Steve felt rabidly guilty again, shame gnawing at the overload of McDonald’s sinking like a stone into his gut. Bucky cared about Steve, and here Steve was, kissing the guy and then pretending like it had never happened.

Steve eyed up at Bucky surreptitiously, but Bucky was just finishing off a bottle of Gatorade, his eyes closed. Steve felt so ashamed. Not only was he hurting Peggy, he was hurting Bucky. His best friend.

His thoughts were going in painful, shameful circles, but Steve couldn’t help it. He had never been good at keeping himself from getting fixated on something. His almost irrational fear of college scouts was testament enough to that.

Steve trained his attention carefully back on his phone to distract himself. There were a few good luck texts from guys on the team, a picture from Tony’s girlfriend of Steve making margaritas that he rolled his eyes at, and a picture from Sam of him practically spooning a bottle of Jameson. Nothing from Peggy.

Steve swallowed, and glanced at the tiny clock on his phone screen. It was already almost noon, and the bus to drive to the opposing team’s school for the game today left at two. Steve wouldn’t have time to stop by Peggy’s house and apologize. He wasn’t even sure if he could spare the mental energy; in addition to the guilt Steve was feeling, a sinking dread at the fact that the team was almost definitely gonna lose their undefeated streak was slowly hitting him.

They were playing the state champions today, the only other team in the league who was also undefeated. And Steve was hungover and pumped full of McDonald’s. He was lucky if he didn’t throw up while at bat, much less score.

And Steve still needed to go home and grab his uniform and his bag. “Fuck,” Steve groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Bucky looked over at him inquisitively.

“I gotta run, man. I need to get my uniform and everything. I’ll see you at school for the bus soon.”

Bucky nodded. “I found your tux. It’s in the corner. It’s kind of crumpled, but I’m sure Men’s Warehouse has irons or whatever. You want me to loan you some sweats for the drive home?” Bucky pulled himself off the bed and started digging through his bureau.

Steve was going to take Bucky’s charity, again, and then treat Bucky like dirt, again. It was forming a fucking pattern: Bucky being painfully considerate, and Steve still being a dick. 

Steve smiled gratefully, feeling it stretch too tightly over his teeth and gums. “You’re the best, man.” Even those simple words made Steve feel slightly sick.

Bucky grinned back, tossing a pair of Mets sweatpants at him. Not Steve’s first choice, but better than going home in just his boxer-briefs. Then Steve felt sick all over again for _ complaining _ about Bucky’s selfless charity.

“Keep drinking fluids,” Bucky said as Steve shuffled into the pants under the blankets. It was nothing Bucky hadn’t seen before, but after the kiss and everything it felt wrong to just show himself to Bucky while in his underwear.

“Okay, mom,” Steve teased, still smiling in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“See you soon.”

Steve waved and made his way out to his car, doing his best to ignore the physical and emotional turmoil that was shoving at his insides like his feelings were playing a fucked-up version of a playground game with his organs. 

* * *

Steve heaved into the little trash can by the door to the visitor’s locker. He’d shucked out of his jersey to avoid getting puke on it, and it was tucked in Bucky’s duffel bag while Bucky kept a watchful eye over it. Bucky was already in the locker room, showering off the sweat of the game with the rest of the team before they headed home. Steve was more than a little paranoid about locker rooms now, and had opted to just shower when he got home.

Since shedding his uniform, Steve was a little cold in his long-sleeved undershirt and baseball pants due to the October chill, but better that than vomit on the stupidly expensive jersey he had just paid for twice over.

The game had just finished -- they hadn’t been mercy-ruled or anything, but it hadn’t been close. They had lost. Badly. Practically the whole team was hungover, running slow, reacting slower. They had made four errors, the worst Steve had seen in his entire fucking time on the team. It was like Steve’s worst nightmare come to life; the team was missing easy balls, throwing shittily, stepping off the bag while fielding. It had been a fucking mess.

This whole day had been, really.

Steve, for his part, had played some of the worst he’d ever had, even in Little League. He’d only been hungover twice before this, and he’d never _ played _ hungover. The inexperience showed. Steve’d bungled an easy pop-fly, struck out swinging twice, and only gotten on base once. Steve, normally the star player, had let his whole team down. He felt like a dick. He was never, ever so much as _ looking _ at alcohol until he had a full ride scholarship to the school of his choice.

Plus which, he wasn’t even keeping morale up like he should have been. Every second he hadn’t spent sucking, he’d spent sulking in the corner of the dugout, angry at himself for fucking up and kissing Bucky. Angry for lying about it. Angry for not apologizing to Peggy yet. He should have been trying to keep people pumped even though they were failing, and Steve couldn’t even do that. The guilt was going to eat him alive.

The only player who’d played well at all was Bucky, who had wound up carrying the team. Steve chose to chalk that up to the fact that Bucky had played hungover countless times before. Still, Bucky, as centerfielder, was picking up balls that both Steve and Sam, their left-fielder, had been too slow to catch. While Steve had been dry-heaving during the seventh-inning stretch, Bucky had been chugging Gatorade and stretching. Where Steve struck out solidly nearly every time, Bucky had sunk two homers and a double. When Steve had been brooding on the bench, Bucky had been high-fiving the team and talking pitching strategy with Clint.

Steve had chalked it up to the fact that Bucky had infinitely more experience playing hungover, high, or drunk than anyone else on the team. Regardless of how experienced he was with hangovers, though, it was indisputable that Bucky’d had a great game, and had pretty much single-handedly kept them from getting completely creamed.

Steve heaved one more time, but nothing was coming up. _ Fuck, _ he felt awful.

“Not your best, Steve, I gotta say. Are you okay?”

Steve whipped up from the sweaty-smelling trash can. Peggy was standing a few feet away, wrapped in Steve’s jersey like they had never fought. Like she was just going to Steve’s games like she always did. Steve hadn’t even bothered searching the stands for her like he always did. They’d both spat such rude, vitriolic things -- Peggy had no reason to come.

It wasn’t like Steve deserved her presence after what he’d done behind her back.

“Pegs?” Steve said, stumbling to his feet even as his belly clenched unpleasantly in protest.

“Hey, Stevie,” Peggy replied, smiling shyly. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Steve had laid eyes on her, but he looked her over like they hadn’t seen each other in years. Peggy was shivering a little bit in the autumn chill, her tanned arms exposed to the wind. Her shoes were mudstained, and she kept rubbing the toe into the grass like she did when she was nervous. Steve hated that. She should never be nervous around him. Peggy’s hair was loose and uncurled. She wasn’t wearing a shred of makeup, and her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. “How are you feeling?”

Steve felt like a monster. He’d done this to Peggy by saying he hated her. He was such a dick.

“I’m feeling kind of shit. I, um, got pretty drunk last night,” Steve mumbled lamely.

“I could tell,” Peggy said lightly.

“I-I didn’t think you’d come,” Steve stammered after an uncomfortable pause. He lifted a hand and cupped the back of his neck. It was flushed hot with an embarrassed blush. He was such an asshole.

“Of course I would. I haven’t missed one since freshman year,” Peggy said softly, staring down at her muddy white Converse.

It was painfully awkward. You could have slashed a knife at the tension and still not have been able to cut it. Even with the guilt Steve was drowning in, Peggy’s words from the previous night were still stinging. Steve worked his ass off, and she acted like she hadn’t ever noticed. For someone as dedicated as Steve, that was a painfully low blow. Steve felt hesitant to talk to her, both for what he’d done, and for the way she’d hurt him.

“I wanna apologize,” Peggy said after a long moment. Her voice was small and shy. Steve had never been talked to by her like this. The closest he’d heard to this tone was when Peggy’s parents had walked in on them having sex for one of the first times and Peggy had talked to them while Steve was still holed up in her bedroom. It was the tone Peggy used when she felt ashamed.

“You work so hard, Steve. It wasn’t fair of me to say that just because I was feeling pissy. I’m so sorry, Steve.”

Steve swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Then why’d you say it?” he asked plaintively. It definitely was nowhere near okay to press Peggy like this after what Steve had done, but Steve couldn’t stop hearing the vitriol and frustration in her voice last night. They needed to be on good terms if they were going to continue being in love, and this was one way to get there, Steve reasoned internally.

“I was upset. I felt like I had let you down by making you late to the party, and I was feeling defensive. I wish I could take it back, Steve. I don’t think that at all. I just wanted to poke your buttons, I think.” Peggy paused, twisting her hair between her fingers nervously.

Steve wanted to comfort her since it was pretty obvious she was being sincere, but that would be crossing a boundary since they weren’t even technically made up yet.

“I love you, Steve. I don’t ever want to hurt you like that again. I’m so sorry,” she continued after a long moment.

Steve fought the urge to lean over and kiss her. She had said everything Steve had wanted and needed to hear. Peggy’s words eased the sting he felt almost in the back of his throat. She still loved him. She didn’t think he never worked hard. However, her words had also made the gnawing guilt that began in the pit of Steve’s stomach and traced up to his heart grow worse. Peggy hadn’t meant what she’d said at all, yet Steve had still gone and kissed Bucky. He was now solidly the bad guy.

Not like he hadn’t known that before, though.

Steve needed to make this better any way he could. First off, he needed to apologize. He couldn’t tell Peggy about the kiss. He didn’t want to ruin their relationship, couldn’t force himself too. Steve knew he was being a bad person by lying by omission, but, just like when Steve had talked to Bucky that morning, he couldn’t make himself ruin the relationship.

“I’m so sorry for saying I hated you. I don’t, Pegs. At all. I’m so, so sorry.” It was a lame apology, and Steve knew it, but he didn’t know how to add anything without alluding to what had happened after their fight.

Steve was treating two of the people who meant the most to him like shit. Because he was a coward who couldn’t fess up to his own actions. That acknowledgement, even to himself, felt like dunking his head in freezing water: jarring and scary and pressingly cold.

Peggy nodded. She had stopped fidgeting quite so much. “Thank you, Steve. I don’t ever want to fight like that again.”

Steve nodded in assent, trying to shove down the feeling of drowning in icy water. “Me neither, Pegs. Are we okay now?” Steve’s words were hollow and mushy in his mouth, the congealed oatmeal of words. He was a dick. He was an asshole. He was a lying, cheating sack of shit who was getting the girl and his best friend _ because, _ rather than in spite of, his assholeishness.

Peggy nodded, small and soft. Without a bright lipstick, it almost looked like a funhouse mirror version of her normal smile. Steve took a quiet step forward, bridging the gap between them so her breasts pushed into the bottom of his chest and top of his rib cage. The pressure almost made Steve feel sick, but he shoved that thought aside violently.

Steve cupped the back of her neck, deliberately ignoring how much softer and sweeter touching Bucky’s hair had felt. He put his other hand on her jaw and rubbed it softly. It was smooth instead of rough and stubbly, and Steve made sure to tell himself that he didn’t mind. Last night was a major transgression and huge mistake, sure, but it was nothing worse than that. This, Steve and Peggy, was how it was supposed to be.

Peggy, for her part, wound her arms around Steve’s waist. She didn’t press in, gentle and insistent all the same time. Instead she just hung there. Comfortable and familiar. Steve pushed the stubborn feeling of the indistinct rightness he had felt while kissing Bucky. That was just an illusion, created by Steve’s anger and the alcohol, and perpetuated by the fact that memory was imperfect and made things that weren’t really there seem real.

No, this is where Steve was supposed to be, he decided stubbornly. It had been like this since day one: Steve and Peggy. It didn’t matter that he had fucked up. It was a mistake. This was where he belonged.

“May I?” Steve asked gently, rubbing her smooth, soft jaw.

“When was the last time you threw up?” Peggy asked, smirking.

“About one. I brushed my teeth,” Steve replied dorkily.

“Okay then,” Peggy said eagerly.

Steve smirked and ducked down. There was a crick in his neck from the angle since Peggy was so much shorter than him, a crick that wasn’t present with Bucky, but Steve ignored it. Instead of embellishing a memory, he needed to focus on the present.

A present that really wasn’t too bad. Peggy’s lips were infinitely softer than Bucky’s, and her touch was light and sweet, in stark contrast to the determined way Bucky tugged at Steve.

Steve needed to stop comparing them. Kissing Bucky was a mistake, one he needed to forget. He couldn’t tell Peggy about it. It’d crush her, and Steve was loath to do that. He’d much rather deal with the pain himself than subject Peggy to it. Besides, Bucky had already forgotten about it. Steve just had to too.

But rationalizing the whole ordeal like he was doing Peggy and Bucky a favor was worse than just ignoring it. It made it like Steve was manipulating them on an intellectual level, rather than just a physical one. Not that that was much better.

Slowly, Peggy settled back down on her heels. “Steve?” she asked, not unkindly. “Normally when you have a make-up kiss with someone, you kiss back.”

Steve flushed instantly. He hadn’t even noticed, he was so wrapped up in trying to get the guilt and Bucky out of his mind. He was treating Peggy even more like shit, and it made him feel sick.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled self-consciously. “Do-over?”

“Sure, honey.”

With that, Steve leaned back down, pressing his tongue against Peggy’s and sucking in her bottom lip while he gently nibbled at it. He was pulling out every move he had, but at least it was seeming to work. Peggy was sighing and leaning into the ministrations.

“Oh! Sorry!” a voice gasped from behind Steve.

Steve pulled back, startled by the sudden exclamation. In retrospect, it wasn’t the best idea to make out in front of the locker room while the majority of the team had yet to exit it. Case in point: Bucky was standing by the entrance, clutching Steve’s jersey in one hand and his own travel duffel in the other.

Steve felt somehow like he’d been caught in the act despite not doing anything wrong. He was just kissing his girlfriend. Or that was what Steve told himself stubbornly, at least.

“I didn’t know you guys had made up,” Bucky said, a smile splitting his face. It reminded Steve of the smile Bucky used when complimenting his own mother’s cooking in an attempt to convince his parents to buy him a new glove. But Bucky had no reason to be insincere that way now. Bucky didn’t remember the kiss, after all. He was probably just surprised to see that Steve and Peggy had made up so fast. If Steve were in Bucky’s shoes, he’d probably be surprised, too.

“Um, yeah,” Steve replied lamely. “Just now.”

“Cool!” Bucky’s voice was overly cheerful, like a Christmas caroler who was angling hard for some of Santa’s cookies. “Well, here’s your jersey. I’m gonna go, um, get on the bus. Have fun, lovebirds!”

Bucky shoved the jersey at Steve, letting go without bothering to see if Steve had a solid grip on it, before stalking off toward the bus. The jersey fell in the dirt, and Steve quickly picked it up to avoid having to hand wash the dirt out of it. Steve watched dumbly as Bucky stalked quickly away. Distantly, Steve felt his own heart ache.

“Is Bucky okay?” Steve asked quizzically, trying his hardest to seem innocent and nonchalant.

Peggy shrugged noncommittally. “You can ask on the bus ride back. He probably just needs space to cool down after the loss,” Peggy said, rubbing her hands lightly up and down Steve’s sides.

Steve kind of wanted to follow Bucky and check in on him, but Peggy was probably right. She normally was about this kind of stuff. Steve nodded, and turned his attention back to Peggy. This was where he was supposed to be, he reminded himself. Even if it didn’t feel quite as right as with Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve feels intense guilt for kissing Bucky and then lying about it. He calls himself an asshole, and talks about not deserving what he has.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I appreciate you!!!


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

Steve felt euphoria soar in his chest, centered equidistant between his shoulder blades, in line with his heart. They had done it. They had  _ done _ it!!! Steve and Bucky had captained their team to making the playoffs with a (nearly) undefeated season. Even as Steve kissed Peggy before she ran off to study for midterms, even as he grabbed his bag and his ugly flip phone and vacated the locker room (Steve showered exclusively at home since the incident where all his stuff was stolen), Steve felt amazing. Nothing, not even tripping over his shoelaces as he climbed the steps out of the locker room, could kill his mood.

Steve began walking out of the locker room, happiness thrumming in the pit of his stomach.

For the two weeks since the disaster that was Homecoming, Steve had felt consistently off. He hadn’t slept well, had fucked up tests that should have been easy, and generally been a little bit of a mess. His mom had pulled night shift doubles twice each week since and even she was better at reminding Steve to do his homework than Steve was at doing it.

But now, for the first time since fighting with Peggy and drunkenly tonguing his best friend, Steve felt  _ good. _ He was honestly excited to take himself out for Chipotle (salads only, since it was playing season) and then collapse on his couch and watch reruns of  _ Seinfeld _ till his mom came home. Any other game, Steve would be doing his usual post-win celebration (fucking Peggy in the back of his car), but she’d had to duck out early because midterms started next week, and Peggy, on track to be valedictorian, hadn’t a moment to waste before she studied.

If Steve was being honest with himself, it felt kind of nice just being able to go home and curl up in his boxers around a bag of chips and guac (Steve wasn’t a  _ complete _ health nut). Besides, he deserved the little bit of pigging out: he’d been eating primarily salads and veggie burgers since the barf-aganza that was the game after Homecoming, and, even by Steve’s standards, he’d played exceptionally well. He’d slammed a homer at his first at-bat, rolled off a triple in the third inning, cracked a two-run home run in the sixth, and gotten a double in the eighth. It was a model game by anyone’s standards, and more than warranted a bag of chips.

And, if Steve was being  _ more _ honest with himself, he also kind of wanted a break from Peggy. Things had been . . . weird in the two weeks since their fight. They’d hung out and kissed and fucked a few times, as usual, but there was always tension crackling between them, making things awkward. They would bump noses while they were making out, and instead of laughing and continuing like they always did, they’d just stop and look at each other for a few long, painful seconds. If they chose to continue, it always felt forced.

Steve chalked the cause of the awkwardness up to himself, and his mistake of a kiss at the Homecoming party. Every time Steve and Peggy kissed, Steve felt guilt chew him up from the inside and spit itself out in the form of unenthusiasm. Every time he looked at Peggy, he couldn’t help but compare her to Bucky, which made Steve sick in and of itself. Her full lips to Bucky’s chapped ones. Her small, gentle hands to Bucky’s large, insistent ones. Her carefully curled hair to Bucky’s tangled, sinfully soft locks. Her sweet brown eyes to Bucky’s round stormy blue ones that always seemed to be laughing even when Bucky himself wasn’t.

Every time Steve had been around Peggy lately, it had felt like he was comparing her and Bucky compulsively. Steve knew it was awful on every level -- as a boyfriend, as a best friend, as a human with basic decency -- but Steve couldn’t help himself. It happened without his slightest permission. He’d been eating Peggy out a few days ago, and his thoughts had wandered to how he would even begin to give a blowjob to Bucky.

He knew through enough juvenile discussion that Bucky liked rougher blowjobs, grabbing hair and face-fucking. That had freaked Steve out. What if he choked, or Bucky hurt him accidentally? His worries about it had fucked up his previously well-honed cunnilingus technique to the point that Peggy had shoved Steve off before she had come.

And that of course had made Steve’s guilt even worse. Who was he to be thinking about another person, much less a man,  _ much less his best friend, _ when he was supposed to be giving his girlfriend pleasure in as direct a way as he knew how?

Besides, Steve knew any weirdness stemmed almost completely from him. If Steve hadn’t fucked up the way he had, it would be fine. It might have been weird for a day or two because they had fought, but then it would be fine. Instead, Steve  _ kept _ making it weirder and weirder, and it felt like he was incapable of being normal.

Worse, Steve knew, deep down, that if he had kissed anyone else, he wouldn’t be feeling this way. Shit, even if he had kissed a guy other than Bucky, he wouldn’t be feeling this way.

Instead, for two weeks, Steve’s guts felt roiled up and mashed together, like a smoothie in a blender. He was walking on eggshells around the two people he normally felt most comfortable with. Because Bucky didn’t remember either, and Steve sure as shit wasn’t going to remind him. Steve didn’t want to trash Bucky’s friendship, or risk another person knowing and potentially blabbing.

This made Steve’s life worse, though. Because Bucky didn’t know, hanging out with him was only slightly less awkward than hanging out with Peggy. Steve hadn’t completely wronged Bucky the way he had Peggy, but Steve also hadn’t informed Bucky that they had drunkenly made out, and not telling someone you made out with them was an area that was decidedly morally gray.

Steve couldn’t talk to someone, nor could he really ask Google for help. “I kissed my best friend, but he didn’t remember, or at least he said he didn’t, plus we’re co-captains of a baseball team that might win State so I don’t want to fuck anything up. Oh, also, the kiss means I can’t make my girlfriend come anymore” was not exactly the most helpful search term in the world.

However, Steve really, really wished there was a fucking Wikihow on what to do about this. In addition to all the Peggy bullshit, Steve was noticeably nervous around Bucky. He would jump at Bucky’s slightest movement, like a frightened squirrel. Bucky had hugged Steve a few days earlier, and Steve had not only twisted out of the touch like he’d been burned, but he’d also gotten hard. Steve was a  _ mess. _

Steve was just bumbling around Bucky. Steve knew that he’d taken advantage of Bucky. They’d both been drunk, but Steve had initiated the kiss. Steve was hurting Bucky by not telling him what happened. Bucky got blackout drunk once or twice a semester, and Steve had always felt obligated to fill Bucky in on what happened so Bucky was aware of everything. And now, when that sort of recap was desperately important for Bucky, Steve couldn’t do it.

Losing Peggy would be awful and heartbreaking, obviously, especially when it would happen over a drunken mistake. But losing Bucky, Steve’s best friend since forever, would  _ crush _ Steve. Steve could see himself if Bucky found out; lonely and depressed and failing his classes and his team all because Bucky would refuse to talk to him.

No matter how Steve looked at it, the fact still stood that he was a horrible friend and boyfriend. Nearly every action he took reminded him of that fact.

But, Steve reminded himself stubbornly as he turned the landing for the last flight of stairs out of the locker room, at least the whole mess was mostly in the back of Steve’s mind now. He didn’t have to put on any fronts for the next few hours at least. He could just eat his Chipotle and watch TV and take a too-hot shower before falling asleep.

Sleep, however, was a whole other can of worms. The dream had been coming back furiously. Since last March, with the notable exception of the night of Homecoming itself, Steve’d had the dream exactly once per night. He’d wake up, miserable and hard, and either jerk off or think of unsexy things until he could roll over and fall back asleep. But for the past two weeks, Steve’d had the dream two or three or even four times a night.

He was getting bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his dick had even gotten tired. And it wasn’t like Steve could really find help. Again, he  _ definitely _ couldn’t ask anyone for advice, and the Internet wasn’t really effective in this case. One couldn’t exactly Google “recurring sex dream of best friend leading to oversensitive cock.” Steve was, no pun intended, stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“Shut  _ up, _ Rogers,” Steve mumbled, squeezing his hands into fists as if that would redirect blood away from his brain and allow him to stop thinking. Well, it worked for boners, at least.

“You are going to have a nice night,” Steve whispered to himself. He was  _ going _ to make it happen. He wasn’t going to think about Peggy or Bucky, much less compare them. He had gotten into the finals. He was going to take home that fucking State championship trophy and put it smack in the center of his living room so you’d have to trip over it if you didn’t notice it already.

Of course, Steve’s plans were made much more difficult when he finally finished climbing the stairs and heard a harsh whisper about one of the people he was  _ resolutely not thinking about. _

“Peggy doesn’t know. She wouldn’t take that shit. She’d punch your ass before you could even  _ attempt _ to lie the situation away,” a husky female voice said. It was familiar, but Steve couldn’t quite place it.

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. Someone was gossipping about his girlfriend. And mentioning something that was kept secret from Peggy. Which spelled  _ big _ trouble for Steve, seeing as he was keeping way too many things from Peggy to be comfortable.

Steve crept to the edge of the hallway, trying not to let his bag rustle and make any noise. Really, he was just doing his best impression of a secret agent, which was quite a shitty one given that he was wearing a pair of old grass-stained Nikes and carrying a duffel full of gear that clinked together conspicuously. However, no one whipped around the corner to catch him, so it must have been alright.

What was  _ not _ alright, though, that Steve was eavesdropping. But what else was he to do?! Someone might be ruining Steve’s and the people he loved most’s lives. Fuck, Steve wasn’t even entirely sure that no one had been watching Steve and Bucky through the fucking glass doors that lead onto Bucky’s patio. Steve was just doing damage control, he reasoned. Sure, he deserved any damage he got. And yes, eavesdropping wasn’t the  _ best _ habit to get into, but they were talking about his girlfriend, for Chrissakes! It was just a self-preservation instinct, one that wasn’t easy to override.

Really, Steve reasoned, I’m just protecting myself. Whoever’s talking about me is doing it of their own volition. I’m just happening to overhear it.

Which of course, was shit reasoning. Steve knew that, but he also knew that the last two weeks had made him firmly into a deeply shit person. If he wasn’t one already, that is. Regardless, Steve stayed put, breathing quietly through his nose to avoid getting caught.

“Don’t make that fucking face at me, Barnes. You could just  _ tell him,” _ the same female voice snapped.

_ “Barnes?!” _ Steve’s breath quickened, and his heart started pounding, his palms flowing with sweat. The lady was gossipping about Peggy to _ Bucky?! _ Why was Bucky getting yelled at? And what the fuck did Peggy have to do with it?

“I can’t. I tried. It’d crush him. You’ve seen his eyes, Nat. They’re so blue, and when he’s sad, they’re all round and miserable. I can’t.” The soft, gently scratchy voice was undoubtedly Bucky. He sounded torn, and heartbroken, and Steve desperately wanted to go to him and comfort him. At the same time, however, Steve wanted to know what Bucky was saying and who he was saying it to, and to do that Steve had to stay put.

It was obvious from the low pitch of his voice that Bucky wanted to keep whatever he was talking about strictly private from anyone who might be listening. Which, since Bucky was talking about Steve’s girlfriend, almost definitely included Steve. No matter how he split it, Steve knew this was a major violation of trust. But Steve stayed rooted to the spot, because he was a bad best friend who had no self control.

Steve had even less reason to move because, well, Bucky was talking to  _ Nat. _ The girl who’d broken Bucky’s nose, and his heart. Well, the heart part Steve was assuming; at least to Steve’s knowledge, Bucky hadn’t fucked anyone since her, so it wasn’t exactly an unreasonable assumption, given that before the nose incident, Bucky’d fucked anything with a pulse that could consent.

Bucky had been radio silent about Nat, but here they were, having a seemingly  _ very  _ tense conversation that, for the life of him, Steve could not get a read on. Bucky seemed sad, but also nervous. And way, way less pissed off than he should have been while talking to Natasha, who, again, had broken Bucky’s nose. Listening to their conversation was just sating Steve’s curiosity, really.

Of course, they were also talking about Peggy and a “him” that Steve couldn’t name, which was alarming in and of itself. The need to know what was going on overwhelmed Steve’s need to push the drama out of his mind. It wasn’t even close, not really.

_ That, _ in and of itself, was a little alarming to Steve. Since when was he selfish enough to prioritize his own curiosity over his friend’s well-being?

“Well, Bucky, the way I see it, you have two choices,” Natasha said firmly. Steve had heard that tone of voice before, back in eighth grade, when she had told Steve to either man up and fucking smoke some weed, or get the hell out of her house. Steve, obviously, had picked the latter option, while Bucky had picked the former.

“You can keep fucking quiet, and everything will be fine, or you can tell him about what happened, and I’ll tell him  _ everything.” _ Nat’s voice left no room for negotiation. Even though Steve towered about a full foot over her, she was downright scary when she talked like that. There was a reason that she had been able to lead Bucky around by his dick even when Bucky wasn’t exactly in the mood for it. That, and the fact that she had scarily long acrylics that Bucky liked having scratched down his back.

Not to mention the fact that Bucky was, well, Bucky, and Nat was a willing and able partner.

“Nat, I’ll wait until the end of the season, but I’m telling him after that.” Bucky’s voice was firmer now, like he was using his older-brother privilege to take the computer away from his sisters like when they were still little kids.

Steve raised his eyebrows. Why would the end of the season matter? What was Bucky hiding? And who was the “he” they kept referencing? Questions bounced around Steve’s skull without rhyme or reason, and Steve felt nearly sick. What did Bucky know?

And why wasn’t he telling Steve? They told each other everything. Christ, Bucky had even told Steve when he’d started getting  _ fucking _ pubic hair!

Of course, Steve hadn’t told Bucky nearly anything about the past almost-nine months. Didn’t talk about the recurring dream. Didn’t  _ really _ tell Bucky what he and Peggy had fought about. Didn’t tell Bucky about the kiss, something that Bucky, as an active participant in the kiss, definitely deserved to know.

A feeling of dread crawled up Steve’s spine, replacing the excited euphoria he had been feeling. Had they ruined their friendship by keeping so many fucking secrets from each other? Steve felt like a monster.

“Bucky, I’ll tell him everything as soon as you do,” Natasha hissed.

“That’s fine, Natasha. He deserves to know, anyway.” Bucky’s voice was wavering just a little bit, but his tone was firm.

Steve was seriously about to whip around the corner and demand more information. He stayed in place though, schooling his breathing so his discomfort wouldn’t give him away.

That idea was short-lived however, when his absolute piece of shit flip phone decided to blare his ringtone. Which, of course, was “Toxic” by Britney Spears because Bucky had bought him the phone and then said it was his right to get to choose the ringtone.

Steve himself was startled, mostly because he didn’t think he’d ever had a phone off of silent for the first time since he’d fucking gotten a phone back when he was a kid. Of course, this was flip phone that had gone on the market in 2004, so who fucking knew what was wrong with it?

Fuck, Steve thought savagely, trying to dig his phone out of where it was buried in his duffel to turn it off before Bucky or Natasha noticed. How the fuck was he supposed to explain that he was eavesdropping on them?  _ Oh hey, guys, I heard you talking shit about my girlfriend so I decided to listen to your private conversation like a fucking coward. Anyway, great game! _ The very thought made Steve cringe.

“Steve!” Bucky blurted excitedly, turning the corner and startling nearly imperceptibly at the sight of Steve.

Bucky hadn’t changed since the game. He was even still in his cleats, rubbing the metal spikes into the linoleum hallway absently. He only really did that when he was nervous, and Steve felt sick. He never wanted to make Bucky nervous. Even if Steve was effectively spying on him, that didn’t mean Steve didn’t care.

Bucky’s hat was tucked under his arm, and he had taken his hair out of the hairband. It was sticking up in all directions. Steve had to actually clench his fist to keep himself from reaching out and smoothing it.

“Oh, um, hi,” Steve said, feeling himself go red. Steve withdrew his hand from how it was shoved into the pocket of his duffel, ignoring whoever was calling. This was pretty obviously more pressing. “Toxic” continued to blare around the hall, and Steve fought the urge to cringe.

“You gonna answer it?” Bucky asked gently, indicating Steve’s bag. “You have a great ringtone.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “If you stopped smoking, maybe you’d learn good music.” Steve knew his response was stupid, but at least it was casual, and Steve was eternally grateful for whatever part of him had managed to dredge up nonchalance.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Bucky replied, laughing.

Steve shrugged noncommittally, internally cringing at the resulting long, awkward, utterly uncomfortable pause.

“Well, great game, man,” Bucky said, brightness permeating his tight smile in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked like he had just failed a test that Steve had aced, and was trying to be happy for him.

“Um, thanks. You too,” Steve said, smiling back. Steve took back his gratefulness; the nonchalance was utterly gone. It had probably left because Steve had realized how screwed he was.

Bucky wasn’t stupid. He must have known that Steve had heard at least  _ something _ of his and Nat’s conversation. However, he also didn’t seem to be willing to give himself away so easily. Steve, now an amateur sleuth, could respect that.

“We’re in the playoffs,” Bucky said, doing lame jazz hands.

If it had been any other time, Steve would have mocked Bucky for the jazz hands before driving him home while singing along poorly to the radio just to annoy Bucky. But now, Steve didn’t have the heart to do anything. Not only was Steve personally feeling weird about the fact that Bucky was pretty obviously keeping secrets from him, he also felt even more creepy and guilty about doing the same.

Uneasiness sunk like a stone in Steve’s belly, and he had to swallow it back consciously. At least he wasn’t jumping at Bucky’s slightest movement, Steve thought glumly.

“They start Tuesday. We gotta get in shape.” Steve’s words were awkward, like he was, instead of his best friend, talking to someone his mom had had over who’d ended up staying the night and walking into Steve’s bathroom in Steve’s mom’s robe. (It had happened twice -- twice more than it should have.) It was way too stiff for celebratory words to your best friend who was sharing in your victory.

“We can afford to celebrate a  _ little _ bit,” Bucky replied, a little easier and lighter than he had been acting. “You’re going to Sam’s Halloween party next week, yeah?”

Steve shrugged awkwardly. Parties clearly hadn’t gone well for him recently, but he also didn’t want to isolate himself from the entire team. He didn’t want to isolate himself from Bucky further, really. Plus, Peggy wanted to get a couples’ costume and go. “Probably.”

Bucky smiled. It was genuine this time, his eyes crinkling up near the corners and his face splitting happily. “Can’t wait. I gotta go because my parents are here, but I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m proud of us!” Bucky squeezed Steve’s shoulder before turning the corner and exiting Steve’s view.

The contact burned through Steve’s clothes, and Steve would swear that he could trace Bucky’s handprint if given the opportunity, even though they hadn’t actually made skin-to-skin contact. For a moment, Steve stood there dumbly, watching the afterimage of Bucky walking away. Steve shook himself roughly out of it, a second wave of guilt biting into the pit of his stomach.

However, Steve’s phone rang again, stubbornly breaking his reverie. Steve threw his duffel on the ground and dug the phone out of the spot it was jammed into in one of the pockets. He was able to go more quickly this time because he wasn’t reeling quite so hard from whatever comments Bucky and Nat were making about him.

It was Peggy, the profile pic of her in that yellow sundress flashing in the background. Steve clicked to answer it, internally trying to convince himself that he wasn’t the shitty boyfriend that he was in actuality, given that he had, again, ignored his girlfriend in favor of Bucky.

“Hello?” Steve answered, hating the way his throat sounded gravelly like he was holding emotions back. He  _ wasn’t. _ He was just talking to his gorgeous girlfriend, the love of his life.

“Hey, Stevie.” Peggy’s voice was warm and soft, and Steve hated the way he felt resistant to sink into it like he used to love doing. Every time they talked, it felt like they were close to at least a spat, if not a full fight. Which might have been projection, but still. Steve always felt like he had to be hypervigilant around Peggy now.

It wasn’t functional for either of them, not really, but each continued to go through the motions.

“I was looking at couples’ costumes for Halloween during a study break, and I was wondering if I could have your input.”

“Sure,” Steve said, leaning against the wall of the hallway, drumming his fingers on his thigh. He honestly couldn’t care less what they dressed as.

“Well, there’s Beauty and the Beast. I’d look cute, but I’m worried the fake hair might make you itchy. There’s Buttercup and Westley from  _ The Princess Bride, _ which looks nice. You’d look hot in an eye mask. There’s also Hugh Hefner and a Playboy bunny, but I don’t know how into that idea either of us are.” Peggy laughed as she gave the last option, and Steve’s insides gave a subtle flutter, one incomparable to the way he used to feel when Peggy laughed, but noticeable nonetheless.

Steve, in contrast to Peggy’s enthusiasm, honestly had no idea what the point of couples’ costumes were. They just seemed like a complete fucking waste of money.

“What’s cheapest?” Steve asked, suddenly feeling exhausted.

_ “Princess Bride,”  _ Peggy replied smoothly.

“Great. I’ll Venmo you my half tonight if you text me the price.” Steve knew he sounded bored, but it was like he couldn’t stop himself.

“Sure,” Peggy replied. Her tone was thinner and more anxious than Steve would have liked, but again, Steve couldn’t muster up anything other than bored resignation.

“How’s studying going?” Steve asked after way too long a pause. He cringed internally. It was like when they were first dating and he was an awkward, fumbling virgin who couldn’t find Peggy’s clit unless she literally led his hand to it.

Except, in this case, her clit was basic kindness, and Steve’s nerves about his virginity was actually the exact opposite, and instead nerves about being  _ too _ promiscuous. Not that kissing Bucky had been exactly promiscuous, but still. The point stood.

“It’s okay. I’m ready for fall break next week so I can just relax,” Peggy sighed. “Do you wanna stay over during the break? My parents are heading into the city to visit my aunt for a day or two.”

Normally, Steve would have just said yes. But instead, he replied, “I’ll see,” without consciously knowing why.

“Okay, love,” Peggy replied, her voice quiet and disappointed.

_ God, _ Steve wanted to kick himself in the nuts for being such an asshole to his girlfriend.

“I’m gonna keep studying. Love you.” Peggy hung up the phone before Steve could reply, and Steve smacked his head against the brick of the hallway, endlessly frustrated with himself. Why couldn’t he fucking just be in love with his fucking girlfriend?

_ Fuck.  _ Steve had no doubt in his mind as he walked to his car: he had fucking earned his chips and guac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading!


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult to write to say the least. However, I think the ending will be very satisfying.
> 
> Quick CW: There is a panic attack and some very light dub con detailed in this chapter. If that concerns you, PLEASE read the endnotes before reading the chapter!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!!!

“Shit, man,” Steve mumbled, leaning against the robin’s egg wall of Peggy’s front hall and pressing his shitty flip phone harder to his ear. “Are you okay?”

Bucky coughed weakly on the other end. “I mean, if I get bedrest and enough chicken soup, I will be.”

Steve scratched the back of his head. He had put on his Halloween costume not five minutes ago and it was already itchy enough to make him want to drive off a cliff. Steve could see why this had been the cheapest couple’s costume option that Peggy had presented; the fabric was  _ shit. _ He just wanted to get to the party and try to distract himself, but Peggy was still up in her room, adjusting her costume and everything before they could leave for Sam’s Halloween party.

They had been  _ supposed _ to pick up Bucky at his house, but, in the middle of AP Spanish that morning, Bucky had vomited into the wastebasket. Steve had been sitting next to him, and it was evident by the chills and his sallow skin that the vomit hadn’t been caused by drinking or anything. Bucky just was sick -- probably the flu judging by the fact that he not only had barfed, but also couldn’t stop shivering, and, according to his texts once he’d taken his temperature, had a hundred and two degree fever.

They’d been texting since Bucky’d been sent home. There was no way Bucky would be able to go to the party; his mom just sitting on his bed to feed him soup had made him nauseous enough to throw up again. Bucky simply wouldn’t be able to handle a kegger like the one Sam was throwing. That idea was furthered by the fact that Bucky’d had two coughing fits within as many minutes when Steve had called him to make sure he really couldn’t come.

Steve was honestly a little relieved that Bucky couldn’t attend the party. Being alone with either Bucky or Peggy had been uncomfortable the last few weeks, to say the least. Being with both of them at the same time would be . . . catastrophic. Steve still bitterly regretted kissing Bucky at the Homecoming party a few weeks ago. It had been one of the greatest mistakes of his life. Steve was now awkward and uncomfortable around the people closest to him, to the point that each had noticed, in their own little ways.

Bucky had shown his acknowledgement of Steve’s discomfort by starting to give Steve a little more space. They didn’t sleep over at each other’s houses nearly every free night now. They didn’t hang out after practice or anything.

If Steve was being more truthful, he knew that he had pushed Bucky away and Bucky had taken the hint. Steve hadn’t exactly been subtle by the way that he was utterly unable to hold a conversation with Bucky anymore. There’d be spells when it felt smooth and easy like it had always been. And then, inevitably, Steve would remember how  _ nice _ it felt to press his lips against Bucky’s and he’d blush furiously and avoid eye contact like the plague. Obviously, that was not at all conducive to a strong friendship.

The awkwardness was made worse by the fact that Steve had heard Bucky talking to Natasha, the girl whom he supposedly hated, about Peggy and a mysterious “he” that Steve had no idea about. Steve hadn’t had the balls to ask Bucky about it, and Bucky hadn’t been at all forthcoming. There was now, on top of Steve’s obsession with Bucky’s lips, yet  _ another _ important secret. A secret that, if Steve were willing to admit that he’d eavesdropped, would probably lead to more discomfort in their friendship, and, probably, a bad fight.

It was just that Steve was so freaked out about the whole thing. He was for a multitude of pretty understandable reasons. Firstly, Natasha had  _ broken Bucky’s nose. _ Badly. As far as Steve was concerned, it was plain unsafe for them to still be talking. Secondly, they were talking about a secret they were keeping from Peggy and “him,” and it made Steve uneasy because Bucky had sounded nervous, which meant that they were hiding something  _ big _ and important from Peggy, whom Steve obviously cared about, too. Thirdly, Steve was pretty fucking sure Bucky had known Steve was eavesdropping, given that Steve’s phone had gone off and given away the way Steve had been plastered against a wall, intentonally hidden from Bucky’s view. But Bucky hadn’t brought it up, which meant that he had some sort of distrust toward Steve, too.

Being around Peggy, meanwhile, was uncomfortable, but in the opposite way. It was largely less complicated than when Steve was around Bucky, but even more fraught. Peggy still, obviously, wanted a normal physical relationship, and Steve was . . . weird about that, to say the least. Kissing Peggy didn’t feel inherently right the way it used to. Feeling her body against his was nice, but it didn’t feel deeply sating. Steve had to remind himself to say “I love you” instead of just letting it fall off his tongue like it usually did.

Really, Steve had to force himself to do everything that had once felt natural. Just watching a movie or studying together didn’t feel quite as relaxed as it should. Sex didn’t feel good and safe, but rather uncomfortable and unsatisfying. Kissing even more so, now that Steve had such a basis for comparison. 

And Steve knew he was probably remembering the kiss poorly due to how imbibed he had been at the time, but the more he thought about it, the more he trusted his memory. Steve’s imagination honestly just wasn’t good enough to capture the print of Bucky’s hands on Steve’s back, the surprisingly soft crush of their mouths together. Besides, he had no reason to build the kiss up in his head. Rather, he had a reason to actively tamp down the kiss. And yet, Steve found himself unable to.

That issue was made harder because Peggy, instead of giving Steve space like Bucky was, was hanging out with him more. They’d hung out every day of fall break, and now that school had started this morning, Peggy had walked to Steve to all his classes, even ones on the opposite side of the building from her own class. It felt suffocating where it should have felt caring, and Steve hated himself for feeling like that.

Steve’s train of thought was saved from going down it’s favorite route to Guilt Station by Bucky’s loud, hacking coughs.

“You know,” Steve said, making a conscious effort to turn his attention back to his phone call with Bucky instead of the fact that he was a bad boyfriend and best friend, “if you stopped smoking, the cough probably wouldn’t be as bad.”

Bucky managed a laugh before launching himself into yet another coughing fit. “That’s the first reasonable argument you’ve ever had, Rogers,” he choked before laugh-coughing more.

“I take offense to that,” Steve said lightly, drumming his fingers on his itchy, itchy thigh.

“I’m sure you do.” Bucky paused to hack a nasty-sounding cough. “Hey, man, my Benadryl’s kicking in, so I’m gonna go lie down. Have fun tonight. Don’t get drunk off your ass again. We’re in the playoffs now. No more fuckups.”

The “fuckup” comment bristled Steve’s skin slightly. Bucky had said he had been too drunk to remember the night of Homecoming at all, so the kiss (the fuckup to end all fuckups) was still just Steve’s little secret. By all counts, that seemed accurate to Steve. Bucky, after all, hadn’t been weird to Steve, but rather the other way around. Bucky hadn’t brought anything up. And Bucky had been known to get blackout drunk whenever the opportunity presented itself. Still, Steve’s hackles rose slightly.

“What fuckup?” Steve asked lamely, trying to keep the tension out of his voice.

“You know, your whole hungover-playing-like-shit fuckup?”

Steve exhaled a sigh of relief. Bucky was just making an innocent comment. A dumbass one, sure, but an innocent one.

“Isn’t that kind of ironic? Seeing as that’s normally your whole schtick?” Steve’s response, however rude,  _ was _ accurate. Normally, Bucky was the one who consistently played more shittily than he should because he was incredibly hungover, and now Bucky was calling Steve out for the  _ one _ time he’d been hungover at a game.

“I may play hungover, but I never play shittily,” Bucky replied nasally. The wet noise of him blowing his nose sounded through the phone, and Steve felt a little guilt for ribbing him when he was so sick.

“Okay, Buck. I’m gonna let you go. Get some sleep and feel better, yeah?” Steve said, feigning nonchalance at the relief he felt that Bucky wasn’t calling him out and was instead joking easily with Steve.

“I’ll try.” Bucky hung up right as he started up another round of wet coughs. Steve worried just a little bit. He couldn’t help it -- he hadn’t seen Bucky knocked on his ass like this, well, ever. Normally, Steve, with his asthma and bad back and flat feet and everything else, was the one laid low by illness. Bucky hadn’t been this sick since he’d gotten croup back when they were two and in play group together. Even then, he’d gotten it  _ from _ Steve.

Steve couldn’t help but feel guilty about that fact that he had been glad that Bucky couldn’t go to the party. Bucky was sicker than a dog, and here Steve was, joyously accepting the fact that Bucky wouldn’t be able to go to the party. Plus, Bucky loved Halloween, and it  _ sucked _ on general principles that he had to miss it.

Steve was again distracted from heading to Guilt Station by the clicking sounds of heels on Peggy’s wooden stairs.

He whipped around and took a moment to just look at Peggy, who had paused on the steps, looking at Steve with her lips curved up in a small smile. Peggy was draped in a soft-looking, flowing red dress, her hair center parted and delicately curled. She made a stunning Buttercup, even if her coloring was a little off.

“Wow,” Steve breathed.

Peggy flushed lightly and beamed down at her feet. “You think it’s okay?”

“More than,” Steve replied.

He wasn’t lying -- she looked beautiful. Always did, really. Steve’s stomach fluttered, somewhat more violently than he would have expected. It wasn’t quite the warmth he usually felt, but instead something stronger and more visceral.

“Ready to go?” she asked softly.

Steve nodded, the weird, spinning feeling inside of him rising higher within his torso, hitting the bottom of his sternum. He swallowed it down, but still couldn’t seem to shake it.

* * *

A few hours into the party, Steve had his arm slung around Peggy’s shoulder, drinking a Sprite while watching Sam and Bruce lose badly to Tony and Thor in a very loud game of flip cup. 

Peggy had a light buzz going, and she was nuzzling Steve and cheering lightly as she sipped a hard lemonade. She really did look beautiful in her costume. A light flush from drinking dappled her cheeks, her eyelashes were long and soft, and she smelled like vanilla cake batter. Before the incident that was Homecoming, this would be when Steve wouldn’t be able to resist kissing her. Steve knew this, and played the role by ducking down to peck the top of her head.

It perturbed Steve a little that before he kissed Peggy, he had to actively tell himself to. Before, he would have just let his lips fall to her head because he wanted to. Now, he was forcing himself to because he felt obligated. It wasn’t a nice feeling. 

Peggy’s response to Steve’s forced kiss was to shift from gentle nosing at Steve’s neck to rubbing her hand up and down Steve’s ribs. It tickled badly, but Steve didn’t want to shove Peggy off and inevitably hurt her feelings. However, as Steve pushed down the urge to ask Peggy to stop, the uncomfortable feeling from just before they had left started roiling faster, like a pot reaching a boil.

It wasn’t so much a physical, oh-wow-let-me-go-lie-down feeling as it was a spinning, out-of-control feeling. It felt like Steve was on the Gravitron at Six Flags and wasn’t  _ really _ about to puke, but didn’t feel exactly  _ right _ either. The closest Steve had ever come to the feeling was after he’d fought with Peggy during Homecoming.

Maybe Steve just didn’t like parties.

Peggy’s tickling touch was almost definitely making the feeling worse, though, her cherry-colored nails practically playing the xylophone on Steve’s ribs. It was making Steve want to screech indignantly. When she tilted her head up to peck Steve’s cheek back, Steve had to fight the urge to recoil. It wasn’t that he consciously didn’t want Peggy’s contact, but rather that it was just making any discomfort Steve had ten times worse.

“Wanna get outta here?” she whispered huskily. “It’s pretty loud.”

Steve thanked the lord that Peggy had noticed his discomfort. It was only about ten at night. Steve could watch some  _ Cutthroat Kitchen _ or something before he had to go to bed. It would probably be nice. He could make some of the stupid organic popcorn he ate more for health than taste, and put on flannel pajamas. Maybe see what his mom was up to; they had barely seen each other for the past month. She’d been picking up more shifts in order to pay the application fee for Steve’s college apps since they just barely didn’t qualify for waivers, and had thus been out of the house whenever Steve was around and awake.

“I would love to get out of here,” Steve replied honestly. The only reason he hadn’t suggested it earlier was because he was doing his damnedest to be a perfect boyfriend. Since the Homecoming kiss incident, it was like all Steve could do was just try (and, most of the time, fail) to be perfect for Peggy, to give Peggy the relationship she deserved.

For the past few weeks, Steve had picked up Peggy from track practice and went to her debate tournaments and walked her to class. He helped her study, and made out with her when she wanted, and had even bought her flowers. Twice. He’d spent quite literally every penny he had left over from paying Bucky back for replacing Steve’s stolen stuff on two stupid bouquets of tulips. No matter what Steve did, though, he couldn’t shake the knowledge that he had  _ kissed his best friend _ the night he and Peggy had fought.

It was like that idiotic “we were on a break” storyline from  _ Friends, _ but worse because there wasn’t even a discussion of a break. It was worse because kissing Bucky had felt better than kissing Peggy. It was worse because, at least on  _ Friends, _ Ross had made an honest mistake. Steve wasn’t sure he had.

He’d been dreaming of Bucky for months. He’d been, albeit unintentionally, pulling away from Peggy for months. This wasn’t random happenstance. Steve couldn’t even blame the kiss on the alcohol he’d consumed prior to the kiss. Bucky had asked for consent multiple times, and Steve had given it in spades. Fuck, Steve had even initiated the entire thing.

And now, here he was, looking forward to leaving the party early specifically because he didn’t want to spend time with Peggy. He was a shitty friend, and a shittier boyfriend. So shitty, in fact, that he was feeling actively, physically uncomfortable doing so much as touching Peggy.

And, as much as Steve tried to explain the uncomfortable last few weeks on something he couldn’t put his finger on, Steve knew that wasn’t true. The last few weeks had been uncomfortable because Steve had fucked up. It was Steve’s fault. The fact that he had to remind himself to do everything from kissing her to texting her to even talking to her, remind himself to do literally  _ everything _ that amounted to loving Peggy, was Steve’s fault. And here he was, continually stringing her along. They were even in a couple’s costume for Chrissake!

He wasn’t being a good person to Peggy. He wasn’t being honest, or kind.

Peggy, for her part, was literally grabbing Steve’s wrist and tugging. Maybe she felt similarly to Steve in terms of wanting to get away from each other, and this was her way of showing it. Except she wasn’t leading Steve out Sam’s front door, but rather up the stairs toward the bedrooms.

“Where’re we going?” Steve asked stupidly.

“Out of here,” Peggy replied without turning around.

Steve raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Huh?” He was so ready to just go home. Steve didn’t really want to go, but he wanted to be good to Peggy. He felt so  _ tired. _

If Steve was being honest, the exhaustion he felt wasn’t entirely physical. He was tired of being around Peggy and constantly being on his best behavior. He didn’t want to sleep with Peggy right then, but he didn’t want to disappoint her. The whole thing was freaking him out; he didn’t want to be there, he was still feeling kind of sick, and he was definitely not at all horny, if that’s what Peggy had planned.

“We’re going to the bedrooms, Steve. Duh.” Peggy began to pull him up the stairs.

Of course sleeping together was what Peggy had planned. Steve didn’t want to be there.

Steve’s discomfort ratcheted up several levels quite suddenly. By the time they reached the middle of the staircase, Steve’s insides were pitching from side to side and he was sweating. He leaned heavily against the banister, trying to think of some excuse to take Peggy home. Sweat was running in between his shoulder blades and down his temples and under his arms. He needed air desperately.

He needed to stay to keep from hurting Peggy worse, but he couldn’t shake the knowledge that he had  _ already _ hurt Peggy. He was a bad, unfaithful person, and Peggy just innocently wanted to sleep together. But Steve was lying to her.

He needed to stop this.

“Peggy,” Steve began as they rounded the top of the stairs and Peggy tugged him into the first open bedroom. Steve was pretty sure the room belonged to Sam’s little sister, given the plethora of pink stuffed animals and the mural of butterflies on the purple-painted wall. “I-”

Peggy cut him off by plastering her lips on his and pressing him against the wall of the bedroom. Steve didn’t kiss back.

He was a bad person, and kissing Peggy was making him worse. He was just pretending like he had never betrayed Peggy, had never kissed Bucky and then tossed him away like dirt. He was  _ lying. _ He was a bad person who lied to the people who mattered most to him.

With this realization, Steve’s internal organs suddenly began feeling like they were being wrung by someone doing a particularly thorough load of laundry. He couldn’t gasp in a full breath. Peggy’s vanilla cake batter scent felt like it was filling his nostrils and choking him. Steve was practically panting, which Peggy definitely took the wrong way, moaning lightly against Steve’s jaw.

An invisible weight was sitting on Steve’s chest, pressing him into the wall and Peggy into him. Steve couldn’t shove Peggy off if he tried, couldn’t even lift his arms. He felt heavy and cramped and panicked. He still couldn’t gasp a full breath.

And still, the realization that he was a bad person pounded into his skull, his chest, his thighs, his groin. He was being squeezed and crushed and ground up. No wonder his lungs couldn’t fill with air. There just wasn’t enough room.

Peggy, meanwhile, was oblivious to Steve’s plight. She leaned up on tiptoe and started sucking Steve’s bottom lip into her mouth and gently palming him through his itchy, thin costume pants. Steve’s eyes didn’t flutter closed like they normally did. Instead, Steve’s eyes darted around the room, wide and alert and nervous. They were definitely in a little kid’s bedroom. There were kids’ finger paintings on the walls, and stuffed animals all over the room. The whole thing kind of made Steve recoil. The idea of fucking on a kid’s princess-decorated bed while a glittery pink stuffed owl watched them was not exactly appealing. He was gonna have to actually watch himself to make sure that he didn’t get jizz on a stuffed animal.

It just was the cherry on top of the bad person sundae Steve had made for himself. 

Steve wasn’t even sure that he would  _ live _ to see the fucking, really. He still couldn’t draw a breath. His sweat was coming faster making him even itchier and hotter. He felt tears pricking his eyes and making his throat tight. Steve shut his eyes tight, trying to focus on anything other than what was happening. He didn’t want to be here. He needed Peggy  _ off of him, _ so he could breathe.

“Steve, honey, what’s going on?”

Steve realized as a cool rush of air hit his chest that Peggy had stepped back. Steve practically sobbed with relief. Again, he tried to suck in a breath, but nothing happened. He needed to get away. He was a bad person, and he needed to stop fucking hurting Peggy. He needed to go home and watch TV. He couldn’t be here.

There was a soft touch at Steve’s hips, warm and light, but it made Steve jump. He recoiled and tried to get away but there was nothing but solid wall behind him. No escape.

Steve couldn’t breathe. He gasped pathetically, clawing at his throat, but nothing helped.

The reality that he was a bad person sunk into Steve’s chest and made him need to vomit, to cry, to  _ get away _ from this too-hot room and Peggy’s choking perfume and the reality of how he had and was continuing to betray and hurt Peggy.

The grip at Steve’s hips tightened. He tried to twist away, but he was clumsy. He couldn’t breathe, and his chest was heaving harshly.

“Steve!” Peggy’s voice was firm, and she was shoving something into his hand. Steve didn’t want it. He didn’t deserve anything from Peggy.

“Steve, you’re having an asthma attack. Just use your inhaler.”

Inhaler. The idea trickled into Steve’s brain like it was moving through molasses, or quicksand. He grasped at it desperately, but the quicksand made it harder for him to move, too. Finally, it hit him. He could breathe if he took just one puff.

Steve raised the inhaler that Peggy had pressed into his hand to his lips and took a trembling breath, collapsing onto the princess-themed bed. Relief wasn’t quite immediate, but within a few breaths, Steve wasn’t panting anymore. Tears were still running down his cheeks, and he was a little sweaty, but he was okay. There wasn’t a weight or anything on his chest. The feeling had just been his rib muscles working too hard trying to get air into his lungs.

He was okay. He was a bad person, but at least he could breathe.

Steve hiccupped a breath and exhaled it as slowly as he could bear.

“Steve, honey, are you feeling okay?”

This was wrong. Peggy shouldn’t be here, making sure he was okay. He didn’t deserve it. He had fundamentally broken their relationship.

Worse, Steve didn’t  _ want _ there to be a relationship at all. He wanted to be home. If he was honest, he wanted to be playing video games with Bucky. He was exhausted by constantly having to put on a front for Peggy, having to remind himself to be “good.”

“I can breathe okay,” Steve mumbled.

Peggy looked so  _ concerned, _ and it made Steve feel sick to his stomach.

“What happened, babe?” Peggy asked, sitting next to him and putting her warm hand on his forearm. It was meant to be comforting, but the touch burned uncomfortably and Steve moved his hand away.

Peggy’s eyes followed Steve’s hand, looking hurt. Steve, _ again, _ was hurting her. He couldn’t do this anymore. He needed to rip off the bandaid. He couldn’t keep stringing Peggy along. It didn’t feel good to be with her anymore, and it was killing Steve to have to constantly lie to her.

Just the realization that Steve  _ could _ say something to Peggy, could come clean, felt like a relief. Steve couldn’t keep lying to her. It had gone on long enough.

“I need to say something,” Steve mumbled, staring at his feet instead of making eye contact. He felt like the worst sort of monster. Peggy had just saved his life from an asthma attack, and here he was, about to hurt her even more than he had before. Still, this was better than the alternative. He couldn’t keep being complacent. It just wasn’t fair.

He’d stopped  _ breathing _ because he’d been so fucked up about it. It was time to be honest with Peggy.

“Go ahead, baby,” Peggy prompted, folding her hands primly in her lap. The pet name made Steve feel sick all over again. He took another half-hearted puff of his inhaler, partially because he needed it, but mostly because he needed a moment to collect himself.

“I kissed Bucky,” Steve finally whispered. The admission felt good for a half a second.  _ Finally, _ he was being honest. A weight was lifted from his chest and shoulders, one Steve had been barely aware he was carrying. He could breathe easier. It wasn’t the manufactured easy breaths of a rescue inhaler, either, but rather the full, easy inhales of someone who was peaceful.

The good feeling was quickly squashed, though, as he turned to look at Peggy. She was folded in on herself, elbows on her knees and thighs pushed together. She was making herself small. Steve’s heart ached, but he didn’t go to comfort her. She wouldn’t want that. Steve didn’t want to force that on her.

The worst part was Peggy’s eyes. They looked soft and startled. Sickeningly, it distantly reminded Steve of Bambi’s eyes after her mother was shot.

Again, Steve was hurting Peggy, but at least it would be the last time he would. 

“What?” she asked simply, looking at him without an expression. No matter how much she was trying to hide it, the emotion was palpable from her eyes and posture, though.

“I kissed Bucky. At the Homecoming party.” Steve’s voice was rough, but even, and Steve was grateful. It pained him to hurt Peggy like this, but it was infinitely better than the alternative: continuing to lie to her until they both hated each other.

Peggy shrunk even smaller into her ball. “Why? Were you drunk?”

Steve swallowed dryly. “No, Peggy, I . . .” Steve trailed off, searching desperately for words to convey what he meant, how to be honest without being egregious. “I  _ was _ drunk, but I did it because I wanted to. Badly.”

Peggy’s eyebrows met in the middle of her smooth forehead. Her brown eyes looked huge and sweet and sad.

If it had been three months ago, Steve would have kissed her, right on the furrow between her brows, and tell her it was going to be okay. Hell, if it had been that morning he might have done it. It would have been forced and deceitful and made Steve sick, but he would have done it. But now, Steve just tried to hold steady eye contact. Peggy deserved that much.

“What do you mean?” Peggy asked after a moment.

“Shit, Peggy,” Steve sighed. “I don’t know. I just . . . I can’t get him out of my head. I know he’s my best friend, but I can’t stop thinking about him in a . . .  _ different _ context.” It was a lame answer, and Steve knew it, but it was truthful. The very first day he’d had the dream, Bucky and Steve’s friendship had stopped being platonic.

Maybe even before then, if Steve was being truly reflective. Steve remembered his eyes lingering on Bucky at the pool, at parties. He remembered feeling hot jealousy when Bucky had crowed about his first time with Natasha. Steve had thought he was just jealous because he’d been small and awkward around women, but there might have been more there.

The more Steve thought about it, the more he was sure that there was almost  _ definitely _ more there.

“Do you love him?”

Peggy’s soft words hit Steve like a ton of bricks -- suddenly and painfully. He wasn’t sure he had a good answer. Every time he thought about Bucky, he had shoved it down, so he wasn’t quite sure if he loved Bucky. The only thing he was really sure of was the indistinct  _ rightness _ he felt while being around Bucky. While laughing with him. While touching him. While kissing him.

“I think so,” Steve answered after a long, painful silence. At least he was finally being honest.

“Do you love me?” At this, Peggy’s hands started to tremble, but she folded them firmly in her lap, hidden from Steve’s view by the way she was leaned over. Steve knew she didn’t want to ask that question, but she had. If she had to ask, she knew.

“Not . . . in the same way I did.” Peggy cringed at Steve’s words, and Steve mentally kicked himself. “Because I did love you, Pegs.”

“But not anymore?” A melancholy smile split Peggy’s face, and Steve’s chest gave a mighty yank. He knew this was the right thing, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It was like putting rubbing alcohol on a cut; it stung and ached and  _ hurt, _ but it was safer and healthier in the long run.

“Not in the same way, no,” Steve rasped, his throat gone dry with the difficulty, the gravity of doing this.

Peggy smoothed her hand over the flowing skirt of her dress and straightened up. It almost looked dignified. “So, what’s this, then?” Her voice broke in the middle, but her posture stayed straight and strong and confident. “What are we doing here?”

“I . . .” Steve didn’t have an answer for Peggy. He wrung his hands together, trying to explain to her the smoothie of feelings and regrets eating up his insides.

“Well, I guess we have our answer then,” Peggy said softly, smiling so, so sadly. Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears. A single one slipped down Peggy’s porcelain cheekbone, making her mascara run almost artistically. If Steve ever planned on going to Advanced Art again, seeing as he had the class with Peggy, he would have painted the moment.

Steve couldn’t do anything other than nod. He felt oddly numb, like he was in a cool bath of still water. Or, closer to the actual truth, that he had been submerged in icy, icy water. Water cold enough to steal the breath out of your lungs, to turn your extremities blue. It felt like Steve had sunk deep, deep into that water until it wrapped around him and inside of him enough to feel utterly numb. Distant from everything other than the faint pulse of his heart and the remote sensation of his lungs continuing to pump air in and out.

Peggy locked eyes with Steve, her gaze sharp as ever through her tears. “I’m gonna go and find a ride home,” Peggy mumbled after a tense, painful silence. She began to walk away from Steve, slow but steady, like a soldier marching toward a battle they didn’t want to face.

“Peggy, wait,” Steve choked out. She stopped, turning to face Steve. Her eyebrows were raised. She looked almost hopeful.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Steve asked, honestly concerned.

He knew it was a shitty, inconsiderate thing to say. What kind of asshole confessed to cheating, agreed to break up, and then asked if his now ex was feeling okay? But he couldn’t help being concerned. Even if he didn’t love Peggy anymore, he still cared for her. There was a reason he decided to tell her the truth instead of lying, after all.

Peggy paused, her hand clutching the fabric of her skirt with a white-knuckled grip. “Only you would ask that after breaking up with a girl, Rogers.”

And with a flick her dress and a half-muffled sob, Peggy was gone.

Steve took a moment to breathe. His stomach wasn’t roiling anymore, but he still felt weird. Belatedly, Steve realized that some of what he was feeling were the after-effects of adrenaline. His body had been ready to break up with Peggy even if his mind hadn’t been.

But now, there was a fresh rush of adrenaline as Steve climbed down the stairs and swiftly exited Sam’s house. He knew exactly where he wanted and needed to be. When he hopped in his car and pulled away from the curb, he was able to drive practically by feel, hardly paying attention to the route he was taking. It was like he had a compass in his very soul, driving him to where he needed to be.

Steve pulled up to the mostly-dark house, ignoring his shitty park as he raced up the stairs to the front door. He knocked like a madman, which, Steve supposed, taking in the way he’d broken up with the girl who he’d been certain had been the love of his life, he was.

After several prolonged moments of desperate knocking, the door creaked open.

When he opened the door, Bucky looked as sick as he had purported to be. He was wrapped in at least three hoodies and a blanket. He was wearing sweats that Steve knew were fleece-lined since he’d borrowed them before. Bucky’s feet were swathed in fuzzy duck-patterned socks. His hair was matted around his cheeks in sweaty, unwashed clumps. His face was pale, his cheeks feverishly pink, his eyes half-unfocused.

To Steve, Bucky had never looked more beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Steve feels like a bad person for lying to Peggy and has a panic attack and a resulting asthma attack as he and Peggy make out. Peggy doesn't notice, so she continues to kiss Steve. As soon as she does notice, she stops and makes sure Steve is okay.
> 
> Only three more chapters and an epilogue left! It's been a whirlwind. Thanks so much for reading!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are ~happening~ here!
> 
> There is some graphic description of vomiting, so if that freaks you out, be careful.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“Steve? What are you doing here?” Bucky’s voice was raspy from his sickness, and he was shivering with just the little breeze that was blowing in from the doorway.

Steve swallowed, unsure of how to answer. In hindsight, this might have been a shitty idea -- Bucky was crazy sick, and Steve had broken up with Peggy not even a full hour ago. Immediately after telling Peggy that he was in love with Bucky, he had sped here, to Bucky’s front porch, which was shitty since Bucky was clearly feverish and not ready to have the whole “I broke up with my girlfriend because I think I’m in love with you” bomb dropped on him all at once.

This really wasn’t exactly the best time to try to confess his feelings to Bucky. Even if Steve did, he couldn’t really kiss Bucky. As much as Steve wanted to feel Bucky’s soft lips and strong arms twined around his waist, it would probably give Steve Bucky’s flu.

“I’m . . .” Steve trailed off as he responded to Bucky’s simple question. He was desperately searching for something smarter than “I’m not sure” but less forward than “I’m in love with you.”

Bucky cracked a smile, soothing Steve’s discomfort slightly. “Wanna come in? There’s extra soup if you want it,” Bucky said after a moment.

Steve nodded, partially to buy himself time and partially to keep more chilly late-October, nearly-November air from hitting Bucky and making him even sicker. This could be normal. It probably  _ was _ normal. They were best friends, after all. It wasn’t weird for one of them to come over,  _ especially _ if the other was as sick as Bucky was. Steve could just operate under the guise of checking in on Bucky.

Even if that was a lie, and made Steve’s spine tingle in an uncomfortable way.

Bucky smiled and walked into his house, letting Steve follow and trusting him to close and lock the door like he’d done a million times before. It was routine to kick off his shoes and lock the door and wave to Bucky’s sisters and parents in the living room. It felt easy and simple. It felt  _ right. _

The funny feeling died down as Steve forced it to. This was  _ right. _ Steve hadn’t broken up with Peggy for shits and giggles. He’d broken up with her because he was in love with someone else. Someone who was making Steve’s heart  _ melt _ just from walking around swaddled in a blanket and duck-printed socks.

“How much soup do you want?” Bucky asked from the kitchen, pulling his blanket tighter around himself. Steve would fucking kill to get to replace that blanket with himself, just wrapped around Bucky and kissing his side of his neck to keep him warm. The thought would make Steve drool if he wasn’t careful.

“Stevie?” Bucky’s voice caught in his throat as he called for Steve’s attention. Bucky cleared it once, subconsciously glancing down at Steve’s feet.

“Huh?” Steve asked like an idiot.

“You still want soup?”

“Oh. Oh, fuck, sorry, no, thanks. Don’t worry about it,” Steve replied. He felt bad even implying that he wanted Bucky to serve him soup. Bucky was sick; he shouldn’t have to make  _ Steve _ soup. Steve should be serving him. Besides, Bucky was shivering just from standing. He shouldn’t be up.

“You sure? “My mom-” Bucky cut himself off as he started to heave a wet cough. “My mom made it from scratch.”

“I’m good,” Steve said, trying to be reassuring. He needed to nudge Bucky toward getting into bed. It was late, after all, and standing was clearly not agreeing with Bucky. He was pale everywhere except his cheeks, which were flushed like he had a sunburn. Steve had to curl his hands into fists to keep from picking Bucky up and taking him upstairs like he wanted to.

Steve was pretty sure he could carry Bucky up the flight of stairs to Bucky’s room. Steve’d carried jugs of water and stuff for the team that probably weighed more than Bucky. Just the idea of Bucky leaning his flushed cheek against Steve’s shoulder was making Steve feel fluttering in his belly and pit of his stomach. His groin, too, but he elected to ignore that.

Bucky shook his head. “It’s really no troub-”

“Bucky, shut up. You’re sick.” Steve’s words were probably a little more blunt than necessary, but Steve couldn’t stand to watch Bucky try to be accommodating when he was literally swaying on his feet.

“I’m not  _ that _ sick,” Bucky mumbled, staring at the floor.  _ God, _ he was cute.

Steve felt a giddy lightness at the fact that he could just  _ think _ that without feeling horribly guilty and ruminating over Peggy. Bucky  _ was _ cute, and Steve loved him. It wasn’t even a question anymore. Steve laughed most with Bucky, felt safest with him, thought he was the prettiest person alive (including every supermodel Steve had ever masturbated to, thank you very much).

“Yes you are,” Steve replied stubbornly.

Bucky looked up, brows furrowed, and Steve’s heart positively  _ ached _ with the need to kiss the little wrinkle between them to make it smooth over. “I can microwave  _ soup,” _ Bucky mumbled. Instead of the disgruntled affect he was probably going for, he instead just looked like a sleepy toddler who was protesting nap time on principle even though they were exhausted.

“Can I sleep over?” Steve suddenly asked, changing the subject almost violently. Asking to stay over was a lame, selfish thing to do. It was cowardly, really. Bucky was sick and needed to rest. Plus, Steve didn’t have a toothbrush or underwear or anything, though he could probably just borrow some from Bucky. The only reason he was asking was so he could bide more time before he asked Bucky out.

Bucky nodded, the wrinkle from his brow fading. He was probably grateful that Steve had refused the soup. Bucky’d had a bad habit of ignoring whatever he wanted in favor doing what the person he was with wanted. Countless times, he’d fucked Nat while he wasn’t quite in the mood just because she wanted to.

“I’m not gonna be much fun. Answering the door is the most I’ve moved since I got home from school this morning. That okay?” Bucky asked almost sheepishly.

Steve shook his head good-naturedly. Bucky was crazy -- Steve would and had hung out with Bucky while he had just been flat-out asleep, whether from too much weed or alcohol or just pure exhaustion on the bus back from an away game.

Looking back, Steve probably should have seen the welcome feeling that stirred in his gut when Bucky slept on his shoulder as a sign of  _ something, _ at the very least. “That’s fine. We can just watch a movie or something.”

Bucky had a small smile playing on his face. Steve’s gut tugged mightily. Good  _ lord, _ Steve wanted to kiss those plush lips. It was a fucking miracle that he had managed not to during those long months of trying to play down everything he felt.

“Can we watch  _ Airplane? _ I already rented it.” Bucky was so earnest that it made Steve’s sides  _ ache. _

“Yeah. Whatever you want.” That was the truth. Bucky had Steve wrapped around his little finger, and he didn’t even know it.

Bucky padded in his duck-sock feet up to his Mets merchandise-encrusted bedroom, Steve following. Bucky was still shivering just being out from under a blanket for this long, and Steve desperately wanted to warm him up. Not in a sexual sense, but rather in a close, hugging sense. He would love to burrito the two of them in the softest quilt he could find and just let Bucky sleep and cuddle until his fever broke. It was all Steve wanted, really.

Steve honestly felt freer than he had in months. It felt like as soon as Steve had given himself permission to, his brain was flooded with thoughts of Bucky. Walking into Bucky’s bedroom and seeing all the baseball regalia and pictures and stacks of homework and even the piles of dirty laundry made Steve’s heart swell. The visceral feeling from before he’d broken up with Peggy was gone, replaced by a feeling almost like the goosebumps you got from hearing a beautiful piece of music or having your hair pet in exactly the right way.

What hit Steve harder than the sight, though, was the smell. It smelled just like Bucky; warm, a little sweet, a little spicy like cloves, and decidedly  _ masculine. _ Despite Steve’s reservations about liking men, the masculinity of the scent didn’t perturb Steve. Rather, it made him feel warm and good inside. The rightness he’d been missing for months with Peggy was riding just under Steve’s skin, thrumming happily like a bee about to get nectar.

Of course, that might have just been apprehension seeing as Steve had yet to actually  _ tell _ Bucky anything. Steve didn’t even know how he would broach the subject. He couldn’t just kiss Bucky if Bucky was this sick.

“Steve?” Bucky asked softly. “You coming?”

Steve blinked a few times, coming back to himself. Bucky had bundled himself under his Mets comforter plus half a dozen quilts, and propped himself up on an entire department store's worth of throw pillows. The setup looked a little bit like the burrito Steve had imagined himself to be an ingredient of, and it made Steve stifle a giggle at just how on the nose his fantasy of Bucky was. Even the fact that Bucky had a hospital-blue vomit basin on his lap and his laptop balanced on his knees didn’t kill the image.

No matter how Steve framed it, Bucky was achingly cute.

This thought pounding through Steve’s skull like an excited child, Steve took Bucky’s invitation and slid under the blankets next to him. Almost instantaneously, Bucky scooched closer and let the laptop balance on both of their thighs equally so they could both see well. Steve resisted the urge to lean over and kiss Bucky’s temple. Steve would bet a hundred bucks that Bucky’s hair would feel even better under Steve’s lips than under just his hands.

Steve got distracted from his minor fantasy, though, by the evidence of Bucky’s illness. Under the blankets, Bucky was generating heat like the feverish furnace he was, and it was more than a little uncomfortable, even if the quilts were only piled on Bucky’s side. Steve would never complain, though.

Bucky set up the movie and hit play, and they watched in silence for the first few minutes. If Steve was honest, he was more watching the light from the movie glint off of Bucky’s features rather than the movie itself. Bucky was giggling in all the right parts, a gentle half-smile never really fading away. He had a little bit of stubble dotting his jaw, and Steve found himself wanting to kiss it, wanting to feel it rubbing against him. Bucky’s teeth were just a little bit crooked in the front. His eyes were glassy with fever, but he was still beautiful.

Everything about Bucky made Steve feel warm and squishy in a way he never had with Peggy. Even when they had first started dating, Steve hadn’t felt this heady rush of being simultaneously amazingly vulnerable and incredibly safe.

“Stevie?” Bucky asked after a while, turning to look at Steve. His cheeks were flushed, and he was so  _ close _ to Steve. Steve could feel the warmth emanating from him, and it wasn’t just the fever.

“Yeah?” Steve found himself whispering, but he wasn’t quite sure why.

“Why aren’t you at the party? In your couples’ costume or whatever. You’re still wearing it, by the way.” Bucky laughed as he finished the last sentence.

“Maybe if you didn’t smoke, you’d be wearing a costume, too, buddy.” The argument made no sense, but at least it bought Steve a little time to formulate how to tell Bucky that he’d broken up with Peggy over, well, Bucky.

“That’s a nonsensical argument and you know it, jackass,” Bucky mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Maybe. But you can’t disprove it, either.”

“That’s a worse argument,” Bucky replied, smiling even as he kept his arms crossed.

“But hard to counter.”

“How in the hell does Peggy put up with your smart ass?” Steve didn’t miss the way Bucky avoided eye contact as he spoke that last sentence. It made hope spark, bright and hot in Steve’s chest, that Bucky actually would take Steve’s confession of his love well. If he didn’t want to talk about Peggy, it might bode well for his feelings about Steve.

“She doesn’t. Put up with my smart ass anymore, I mean,” Steve muttered. It was a horrifically bumbling and awkward admission, but at least it was out.

“Huh?” Bucky asked, shifting to make eye contact with Steve. His sweet blue eyes were round and soft. His eyelashes looked miles long. Steve hoped desperately that some day he’d get to feel them flutter on his bare chest, or on the crease of his hip. He just wanted Bucky close as possible.

Of course, that pattern of thought made answering Bucky’s question that much harder, as Steve was too enamored with Bucky to think of an eloquent way to explain that he broke up with Peggy because he was hopelessly, desperately in love with the man next to him. So in love that Bucky literally took the words from Steve’s lips and left Steve unable to form thoughts.

“Oh, um, Peggy and I broke up. At the party. Didn’t really want to stick around after that.” Steve laughed awkwardly once he’d finished speaking, cringing internally at how weirdly nonchalant he sounded. Steve’s words didn’t nearly convey the gravity behind his breakup, the passion and utter warmth he felt for Bucky that had fueled it.

The words didn’t come close to showing that this breakup was the first in a long list of things he’d do to get to be with Bucky.

“Seriously?” Bucky asked. His mouth was carefully downturned, but his eyes were brighter and more lucid than Steve had seen them all day. “Shit, man.”

“Yeah. I came over here as soon as it happened.” Steve kicked himself mentally for sounding like such an idiot. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t just say, “I came here for you because I love you?” Instead, it was all vague and weird and wrong-sounding, and Steve wanted to bite his fucking tongue.

“Why’d you break up?” Bucky asked, ignoring the movie in favor of turning more fully toward Steve. The laptop’s weight got redistributed entirely on Steve’s lap. Steve would normally move it back to make sure that Bucky could see, but this angle had Bucky pressed to Steve in more places, so Steve couldn’t complain. However, Steve also couldn’t  _ think _ like this. His brain felt so  _ mushy, _ like he couldn’t form a complete sentence if he practiced a hundred times in the mirror first.

“Um . . .” Steve searched for the words to explain himself. Steve wanted this to be perfect, to make Bucky feel loved and adored like he always should. However, any attempt at words caught in Steve’s throat once he thought deeper about it. If he explained it in the frame of breaking up with Peggy leading him to want Bucky, it would be wrong. Steve would be acting like breaking up with Peggy had been the impetus to want Bucky. In reality, it had been the reverse. In reality, Steve wanted,  _ needed _ to explain a million more, complicated, tangled,  _ loving _ emotions than that.

“There was someone else-” Steve shook his head before continuing, “T-there  _ is _ someone else. Who I like. A lot.” It was awkward and stilting, but at least it was out. Of course, not nearly the way Steve wanted. Instead, it was vague and stupid and unhelpful.

Bucky deserved poetry about everything Steve loved about him. Poetry about the way Bucky could make Steve laugh, always. The way Bucky teased Steve in a way that never felt mean. The way Bucky always remembered to check with Steve about his inhaler. The way Bucky always carried a hair tie on his left wrist. The way he looked when he was happy. The way he looked when he was nervous. The way he looked now, fragile and sad and upset all at once.

Steve hated himself for making Bucky look like that, but he couldn’t get the knot of words out of his mouth. Instead, he just sat silently, watching Bucky’s face fall like Steve was oblivious to it. That hurt something awful, a stabbing, squeezing feeling that kept Steve from drawing a full breath. It was like an asthma attack, but more constricting.

“Oh,” Bucky said after a moment, turning back away from Steve and pulling the laptop back onto his own lap. Both the computer and Bucky’s thigh were hardly touching Steve anymore, a brush instead of the firm press from before. The lack of contact burned more than the touching ever had, painful and bright like a hot poker. “That must have been really hard,” Bucky murmured after another extended pause.

Bucky was fixing his gaze firmly on the screen, but he wasn’t smiling or laughing anymore. Instead, his mouth was downturned and his eyes round and sad. Steve wanted to kiss the corners of his mouth, his eyelids. Steve just wanted Bucky to smile again.

“You okay?” Steve asked lightly.

“I’m fine,” Bucky snapped. 

Bucky wrapped his arms around his middle, drawing a slow breath through his nose and exhaling it as he closed his eyes. “My stomach’s hurting again, though. I think I gotta puke,” he mumbled.

At least this was something Steve could help with. He didn’t need to figure out appropriate words or actions, he just needed to be there for his best friend who was in pain. It was a stupid thought, one that ran through Steve’s mind unbidden, but he followed it nonetheless. At least this way, Steve could take care of Bucky.

“Okay, Buck. I got you,” Steve mumbled as he clumsily rushed out of the bed to allow Bucky a route to the bathroom.

It was too late, though. Bucky had folded himself over the basin on his lap and was beginning to heave. Steve made a soft, upset sound in his throat, and leaned down, planting one knee on the bed to allow himself to get closer to Bucky without shifting the bed and making Bucky’s nausea worse.

All of Steve’s unpleasant anxieties and anger at himself for not making Bucky feel loved faded in the face of Bucky being in real distress. It didn’t matter that Steve had bungled telling Bucky he loved him, because now Bucky was in real pain. Steve could at least  _ try _ to make that better, for now.

Steve scanned Bucky quickly for anything he could do to help, Steve’s eyes eventually landing on how Bucky’s hair was hanging in his face. It made Steve cringe; Bucky was almost certainly going to get vomit in it.

Bucky always kept a hair tie on his left wrist. Steve could tie Bucky’s hair up and keep him from getting it all gross. Steve reached down to Bucky’s wrist, gently prying Bucky’s hand away from its vice’s grip on the basin. Steve slid off the purple hair tie, smiling in spite of himself at how predictable Bucky was. Steve came behind Bucky, gathering the sweaty strands of his hair and pulling them into a little bun at the crown of Bucky’s head.

It was by no means nice-looking, and Bucky would probably cringe when he saw it, but it was better than getting vomit in his hair. As Steve secured the hair tie, he did his best to ignore how obscenely  _ soft _ Bucky’s hair was. It felt like kitten fur, or a fleece blanket fresh out of the dryer, or the inside of Steve’s favorite World Series hoodie. If Steve had his way, he’d never stop touching it.

However, given that Bucky was about to blow chunks, it was probably smarter to  _ stop _ touching his head so Bucky could aim into the basin and not all over his soft comforter. Instead, Steve ran his hands down Bucky’s back and over his shoulders, squeezing lightly in a way that he hoped was comforting.

Bucky was shuddering as he vomited, and Steve tried his best to soothe him. “You’re okay, Buck. This fucking sucks, huh? But you’re okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky made a strange, choked hiccupping sound that raised Steve’s hackles immediately. “Hey, you’re not pulling a Jimi Hendrix on me, are you, buddy? Are you choking?”

Bucky pulled his head up and shook it in the negative. His eyes were watering badly, and he was shaking worse. “I’m not choking,” Bucky muttered miserably.

“Okay, Buck. Thanks for letting me know.” Steve pressed his lips gently to Bucky’s temple like he’d wanted to before. Steve had been right -- Bucky’s hair was even  _ softer _ on Steve’s lips, obscenely so. The kiss could be mistaken for an accidental brush, or just an awkward bump. But Steve couldn’t help but just try to convey how much he cared for Bucky not just as a friend, but  _ like that. _

Bucky finished after another long minute or two, exhaling shakily through his nose.

“You all done, buddy?” Steve asked, gently settling back onto his heels instead of leaning over Bucky. The last thing Steve wanted to do was crowd Bucky during something as physically intense as this.

Bucky nodded miserably and adjusted the covers. He pulled the blankets up higher around his shoulders so just the tips of his ears, his forehead, and Steve’s shitty attempt at a bun were exposed. He was making choking sounds, but he might just be fighting for breath.

“You wanna run to the bathroom real quick? Brush your teeth?” Steve was trying to keep his voice low, soft, so as to soothe Bucky. Instead, Bucky just started shivering. Steve’s insides screamed at him to just kiss Bucky, vomit-taste be damned, but Steve held back. Bucky wasn’t in a place for that right now.

Bucky nodded and extricated himself from the blanket pile, making a beeline for his bathroom, full basin in hand. Steve’s eyes followed him. Bucky was in a bad way. As much as it hurt that Steve was unable to do anything from telling Bucky he loved him to making Bucky feel better, it hurt worse that Bucky was feeling so awful.

Steve was half-tempted to follow Bucky to the bathroom, coax some Tylenol down his throat if Bucky hadn’t taken some already. The shower flicked on, though, so Steve stayed squarely where he was, not wanting to bother Bucky during something personal and gross like showering vomit off yourself.

Steve could at least use this time to figure out how and when he wanted to tell Bucky that he was in love. Tonight wasn’t the right time. Bucky was upset, and sick enough to not even be able to make it to the bathroom. Maybe Steve could do it before the next game, just whisper it in Bucky’s ear and hopefully be able to kiss him behind the bleachers or something.

But if Bucky didn’t want that, he would get totally upset, and ruin their chances at reaching the championship. That was a non-starter. Maybe Steve could drop a note in Bucky’s locker. Bucky would almost certainly recognize Steve’s chicken scratch. Of course, that was awfully middle school.

Steve could just profess his love in the middle of the cafeteria, or organize a flash mob or something. But if it made Bucky uncomfortable, that would be even worse. Steve just wanted Bucky to feel safe and loved.

Steve’s thoughts continued to circulate until the shower flicked off and Bucky padded back into the room. His hair was wet and tangled, hanging over his ears and forehead in a way that would make healthy Bucky want to call the cops. He was back in his ensemble of an obscene number of hoodies and those adorable ducky socks, but the blanket was in his arms instead of around his shoulders, which was probably a minor improvement since it implied that Bucky wasn’t freezing anymore. He was clutching a cup of water and a bottle of Tylenol in his other hand. He looked sweet and sad, like a lost puppy.

Worst, he was crying, tears and snot running down his face, making it all the more flushed. Steve wanted to go to Bucky and wrap him up in a firm hug, make him feel loved and safe even as he was in such physical discomfort.

Instead, Steve just stood up from his perch on the bed, took the pills and water from Bucky, and watched Bucky nod gratefully and climb back under the covers. “Hey,” Steve said softly, placing the pills on Bucky’s nightstand and sitting on the bed slowly so as not to startle Bucky. “What’s going on?”

Bucky shook his head, and reached for the water cup. He swished some around in his mouth for a minute before swallowing. He then reached for the pills and took two with small, timid sips. He was still crying, and it was making Steve hurt not just mentally, but physically, too.

“Bucky, I know it’s embarrassing to throw up, but it’s just me. It’s not a big deal,” Steve mumbled, trying to be reassuring.

Bucky shook his head, placing the empty water cup down next to him. “It’s not that,” Bucky mumbled miserably.

He was shivering worse now, his teeth chattering. He must have been freezing. Steve pulled back the covers and scooted next to Bucky. It didn’t matter that Steve was overly hot or still in his shitty costume sans eye mask. Bucky needed warmth, and Steve could do that for him.

Steve put his arms around Bucky and pulled him close, holding him. Bucky pushed his face into Steve’s pec, hiding it. Steve could feel the tears and snot ruining the costume, but Steve couldn’t have cared less. Bucky needed him.

“Shhh,” Steve mumbled, reaching up to rub the back of Bucky’s head as he quietly marveled at Bucky’s hair. “You’re okay.”

Bucky kept shaking and crying. Steve was of half a mind to go and get Bucky’s parents -- barfing sucked, but this felt a little extreme. The other half of Steve’s mind was wrapped up in the fact that Bucky was seeking comfort from Steve, was wrapping himself around Steve like a very ill octopus and letting himself be held.

Bucky mumbled something into Steve’s chest.

“What was that, buddy?” Steve asked softly. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Bucky looked up at Steve. His eyes were red-rimmed and impossibly huge and sad. The ultimate puppy-dog eyes.

“I know y-you love someone else,” Bucky hiccupped through his tears, “but this r-really sucks.”

“What does?” Steve asked, rubbing between Bucky’s shoulder blades.

Bucky pressed into the touch, and it made a quiet thrill graze Steve’s spine. “Watching you leave Peggy for someone else.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Why does that suck?” Steve knew he was making a cheap move by trying to ascertain Bucky’s feelings before confessing his own, but the words slipped out unbidden.

“God, you’re dumb,” Bucky mumbled, pushing his face back into Steve’s chest. Even though Bucky’s hair and tears and mucus were soaking Steve’s shoulder and pec, it felt undeniably nice to have Bucky so close. Of course, Steve would rather it be under better, healthier circumstances, but at least Bucky was here.

“I’m dumb?” Steve asked, confused at the sudden change in topic. He continued to rub Bucky’s back since Bucky had seemed to love that. Bucky wasn’t wrong, of course, but it was a non-sequitur.

“You’re  _ so _ dumb,” Bucky agreed, his voice muffled.

“Why?”

Bucky made a soft snorting sound that shouldn’t have been attractive but was. “Oblivious little idiot.”

Bucky half-heartedly thudded his hand against Steve’s shoulder. It stung for half a second before dissipating. Normally, Steve would have been freaked out, but it was clear Bucky wasn’t trying to hurt Steve. He was just upset.

“You’re so fucking stupid. I was being  _ so _ obvious, but you’re dumber than a fucking pile of bricks.” The hand that had hit Steve now tightened into a fist, clutching Steve’s shirt with it and bringing Steve’s torso even closer to Bucky’s face.

“Yeah?” Steve’s prompting was stupid, he knew, but he just wanted to be there for Bucky, and this was an easy way of doing so.

“Loved you for  _ years.  _ I fucking bought you  _ daisies, _ and you couldn’t even be bothered to notice that I’m fucking in love with you!” The last part was sobbed louder than the others, and Steve would be concerned if his heart hadn’t suddenly started soaring.

It was better than the euphoria of hitting the winning run. It was better than an orgasm, better than the thrill from an amusement park. Better than ice cream on a hot day. Better than acing a test. Better than being hugged by a parent. Steve couldn’t help the bright smile that split his face.

Bucky was so upset, and that was hurting, but he loved Steve.

He loved Steve!

“Wait, Bucky, you love me?” Steve asked, looking down and trying to make eye contact with Bucky, but met only with the sight of the top of Bucky’s head.

Bucky shook his head, still not breaking contact with Steve’s chest. “You’re fucking  _ cuddling _ me, but you can’t even realize that I  _ love you.” _

“Bucky,” Steve said. Bucky still didn’t respond, instead continuing to rant into Steve’s body. “Buck, sweetheart, hey.” Steve’s attempts to grab Bucky’s attention were clearly not working. He still had his head pushed into Steve’s chest and was mumbling “I love you” over and over. It would have made Steve start dancing if it hadn’t felt so heartbreaking.

Steve grabbed Bucky’s shoulders and shoved him into a sitting position. It wasn’t nearly as gentle as Steve would have liked, but it got Bucky sitting up and looking at him instead of ranting into Steve’s chest.

Bucky’s eyes were even redder than his cheeks, and his breaths were hiccupped. Steve wanted to kiss him more than he’d ever wanted anything before.

“Bucky, you’re the person I love. You’re the ‘someone else.’” Steve’s voice was gruff and low, but his words were painfully honest.

Bucky’s eyebrows knit, not understanding. He was still crying, his face split in an expression of such utter pain that Steve was hurting right along with him. “What?” he mumbled. It wasn’t supposed to be sweet, but to Steve, it was.

“I broke up with Peggy for you. Well, not just for you, but you . . .” Steve trailed off and swallowed thickly. “You’re a pretty good fucking reason, pal.”

Bucky shook his head even as his expression softened into something sweet and open and downright  _ kissable. _ Tears were still falling, but at least they were starting to slow. Steve squeezed his own knees to avoid launching forward and grabbing Bucky.

“You love me?”

Steve nodded. It was true.

“You sure?”

Bucky sounded so honestly disbelieving that Steve couldn’t help the little high-pitched giggle that flung itself out of his throat. “Yeah. Yes. I  _ love _ you, Buck. I love your soft hair and huge eyes and competitiveness and  _ humor _ and levity and intelligence and kindness and everything that is you.”

Bucky blushed at the rush of the compliments, a color pinker and higher on his cheeks than the feverish flush he was still sporting. He wiped half-heartedly at his eyes. “Really?”

Steve rolled his eyes, even as he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “Yeah. And what was that I heard about you loving me for  _ years?” _

Bucky flushed even brighter, sniffling lightly. “I, um, have. And I do.”

“Yeah?” Steve asked, grin still splitting his face.

Bucky smiled back. It was soft and sweet, even through the tears. “You’re pretty fucking special, Stevie. Couldn’t help myself. Loved you since I could throw you forty feet.”

Steve rolled his eyes at Bucky’s not-so-subtle dig and leaned forward to tuck a stray lock of Bucky’s obscenely soft, soaking hair behind his ear.

“I don’t wanna get you sick, but I really wanna kiss you,” Bucky whispered when Steve made contact with his ear.

“Get over here, Bucky.”

“What if I get you sick?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Couldn’t care less, Buck.”

Bucky took the invitation and shuffled forward. Steve bent down and kissed him. Simple and sweet and perfect.

Bucky’s arms twined around Steve’s neck, and one of Steve’s hands came to rest on Bucky’s hip, squeezing lightly. The other tugged gently on Bucky’s hair since Steve just couldn’t resist. The hair made Steve’s hand sopping wet and freezing cold, but Steve couldn’t care less. Just more sensation for him to enjoy with the one he loved.

Bucky tasted like the mint of his mouthwash and  _ warmth, _ not just that of his own fever, but one innate and sweet and purely Bucky. Even though Bucky was sick and Steve’s neck was at an awkward angle and Bucky’s hair was getting into their mouths as they moved, Steve couldn’t complain. This was perfect because it was  _ Bucky. _ Sober, wanting Bucky who loved Steve just how Steve loved him right back.

Steve could do this every day of his life. And, he thought with a quiet thrill as Bucky’s arms tightened around his neck, he might just get the opportunity to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is cute as hell, y'all!

Steve woke up comfortable. He was warm, but not hot, wrapped, but not constrained, in blankets. Steve’s eyes slowly cracked open, taking in the garishly orange walls and deep blue comforter he was swathed in.

It was such a contrast to the way he’d woken up not even a full month ago after Homecoming. Same room, but instead of feeling painfully sick, he felt warm and calm and comfortable. Same bed, but instead of a pounding headache, his head was resting on a ridiculously soft throw pillow. Same ugly, blasphemous (Steve was a die-hard Yankees fan, and would endlessly tease Bucky for his Mets-themed room) decor, but instead of waking up alone, Steve was decidedly with someone.

Steve looked down at the beautiful man lying on his chest. Bucky was still fast asleep, arm slung over Steve’s waist and head nestled in the soft hollow between Steve’s pec and his shoulder, their legs tangled together. Bucky’s dark hair was scattered around his own head, forming a stark halo against Steve’s pale skin.

Last night, after Bucky’d had to break up their makeout session three separate times to cough, Steve had put an end to it and forced Bucky to go to bed. Bucky’d relented, but only because the Nyquil that Steve had forced down his throat was finally kicking in. Bucky had shut his laptop, buried himself under his mountain of blankets, and was half-asleep by the time Steve had come back from brushing his teeth (he’d stolen a toothbrush from Bucky’s medicine cabinet) and stripping to his boxers.

Steve had tried not to bother Bucky as Steve had slid into bed beside him, but Bucky had stirred and planted himself firmly on Steve’s chest. He clearly hadn’t moved since. Bucky was snoring lightly, his back rising and sinking with every breath. Despite still being wrapped in a thick hoodie, Bucky wasn’t shivering like he had been all of last night, and had kicked off most of the obscene number of blankets. Best of all, when Steve reached down to pet Bucky’s hair, Bucky’s scalp and forehead were warm, but not hot. The fever had broken.

Steve smiled sweetly. His . . . boyfriend? Lover? Best friend, now featuring benefits? Whatever.

Steve’s  _ Bucky _ was on the road to recovery. Steve still needed to let poor Bucky sleep, of course, but at least he was no longer feverish. Keeping Bucky up and making out with him the way Steve had last night was not at all the best strategy for making sure Bucky was healthy and happy. And making sure that Bucky was healthy and happy was Steve’s top priority.

Along with kissing the shit out of him at every opportunity, of course.

However, as soon as Steve resolutely dedicated himself to making sure Bucky got enough sleep despite needing to get up and pee, Bucky began to stir, blinking sleepily and lifting his head up from Steve’s chest. Steve immediately missed the warm contact.

“Stevie?” Bucky asked, looking up at Steve, eyes heavy and voice thick with sleep.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve replied, tucking some of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. Even though it was tangled, it was still delightfully soft. Steve hoped Bucky would let him brush it someday. Steve would run the brush through and kiss Bucky’s scalp after each stroke. Maybe braid his hair, too, if Steve watched a YouTube tutorial or two. Steve just wanted to touch Bucky in any way possible, really.

“You stayed,” Bucky mumbled, letting his head fall back onto Steve’s torso.

Steve’s insides twisted at how surprised Bucky sounded at that. Bucky should never, ever feel worried if Steve was going to leave or not. That was important to Steve. They loved each other. Steve would never leave him, especially not after how long it had taken him to get here in the first place. “I’m not going anywhere, pal. Promise.” Steve squeezed Bucky’s hoodie-clad shoulder, and Bucky seemed to relax minutely. His muscles eased, but he was still holding Steve like he needed reassurance that Steve was there, real.

Steve understood. For months, he’d dodged his feelings about Bucky, avoiding any passing thought, much less a conversation with himself, about how he felt. Bucky had said he’d loved Steve for years, so Bucky must have had at least some of a similar experience of denial. If Bucky needed reassurance, that was valid, and Steve was more than happy to give it to him.

“I’m staying right here, okay?” Steve asked in a second attempt to make Bucky feel secure. He leaned forward and kissed the crown of Bucky’s head. Bucky seemed to like that, relaxing his head back onto Steve’s chest and loosening his hold around Steve’s middle.

“I’m not going anywhere, either,” Bucky replied solemnly, tilting his head down and kissing Steve’s chest. It tickled a little, but Steve more than appreciated the sentiment. Steve didn’t know what he’d do with himself if Bucky freaked out about this and wanted to call it off. Steve loved him, really and truly loved him.

It wasn’t the puppy love Steve was coming to realize he’d had for Peggy. No, this was the real deal. The real, heart-aching-if-you-imagine-them-getting-hurt, wanting-to-hold-them-while-they-slept, inspiring-you-to-sing-from-the-rooftops-about-how-cute-they-are  _ love. _ Bucky  _ meant _ something to Steve. Something that made Steve’s eyes burn and his throat ache if he thought about it too long. Instead, Steve just pet Bucky’s side to continue to reassure both himself and Bucky that neither was going anywhere, and willfully changed the subject. “How’re you feeling, Buck?”

Bucky rubbed his stubbly cheek into Steve’s shoulder. Steve couldn’t help the way his chest filled with warmth at the less-than-subtle way Bucky was initiating further contact. “Better. Less pukey.”

Steve chuckled, genuinely relieved that Bucky was feeling better. “Less pukey is good. You still need rest, though.”

Bucky’s aimless cuddling shifted into a thoughtful nod as if Steve had said something profound. “Maybe. As long as you stay,” he half-whispered into Steve’s skin after a moment.

Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky and squeezed. Steve would never leave, and this was an easy way to convey that feeling. “Always. Can I pee first, though?”

Bucky sighed dramatically and nuzzled into Steve harder, pressing his own torso into Steve’s side and squeezing Steve’s legs where they were tangled with Bucky. “I’ll miss you. But yeah, go ahead. I gotta piss, too.”

“That’s good. Means you’re getting enough fluids,” Steve whispered, his mother’s, a nurse’s, words from the million and one times Steve had been sick as a kid coming through his own mouth. Steve would have felt awkward at the nurse-language he’d just used if it had been anyone other than Bucky. However, since it  _ was _ Bucky, Steve felt comfortable just squeezing Bucky close one more time, a goodbye squeeze. Steve could get used to that level of comfort.

As it was, Bucky giggled and said, “Yes, Nurse Rogers,” before kissing Steve’s chest again and picking himself up into a sitting position. “Go quick,” he mumbled, tugging an extra quilt over his shoulders and head so he looked like a little Jawa from Star Wars.

_ God, _ Bucky was achingly cute. For a minute, Steve just wanted to ignore his bladder and tend to Bucky instead. Lay him back down and spoon him. Kiss his neck while he slept, and tickle his ever-sensitive sides when he woke up, especially since Bucky was perennially crabby whenever he napped.

However, that would probably result in Steve pissing Bucky’s very nice sick-nest, so Steve settled for kissing the apple of Bucky’s non-flushed cheek before standing up, shoving on one of Bucky’s nearby shirts (David Wright shirt,  _ ugh), _ and heading for the bathroom.

Steve quickly pissed and brushed his teeth, noting that it was early enough that Bucky’s family didn’t seem to be awake yet. Steve hadn’t checked the time when he’d woken up, but the weak light coming through the bathroom window indicated that it was only maybe half an hour after sunrise. That was good. Bucky could sleep more and not be awake all night. Plus, Steve could spend more time learning all the things he wanted to about how Bucky was as a lover instead of just a best friend.

Like the way Bucky was a cuddler. Steve had always seen Bucky been tactile with his numerous paramours, but it had always been the tongue-down-the-throat-hand-down-the-pants kind of tactile, never the relatively innocent snuggly kind. Or the way Bucky seemed to like to kiss Steve’s chest, not for erotic purposes, but rather just to punctuate his sentences. Or how Bucky liked to kiss, touching everywhere, smiling, taking breaks to kiss Steve’s jaw or throat or collarbones so Steve wouldn’t be sent spiraling into an asthma attack. Steve  _ really _ liked learning about that.

Steve noticed himself smiling like an idiot around his toothbrush, but couldn’t even be bothered to be embarrassed about it. He was  _ happy. _

Steve kept on smiling as he made his way down Bucky’s plush-carpeted hallway back to Bucky’s room. The door was ajar the way Steve had left it, and he pushed it open slowly, not wanting to wake Bucky if he’d fallen back asleep.

Bucky was far from asleep, though. Instead, he was lying with his head hanging off the end of the bed, upside down, his tangled hair brushing the floor. His eyes were closed, but they flew open when Steve entered.

“Hey, handsome,” he said, grinning.

“Bucky,” Steve murmured, his admonishment half-hearted because of Bucky’s sweet greeting, “you need to be gentle with yourself.”

Bucky shrugged. “I was bored,” he mumbled, rubbing a hand through his tangled hair and sitting up.

Steve nodded. He understood. Bucky was fidgety at the best of times, and finally feeling better after twenty-four hours of forcing oneself to be lethargic was certainly not the best of times. There was a reason Bucky played a sport year-round; he had a lot of energy he needed to get rid of.

“Go slow when you’re walking, okay? You’re exhausted and dehydrated.” Steve knew he was being overprotective, but he couldn’t help it either. That was  _ Steve’s _ best guy right there, and Steve would never let Bucky get hurt. The protective nature in Steve’s chest swelled unexpectedly, but not entirely unwelcomely. Steve kind of liked how it felt to make sure that Bucky knew Steve cared and wanted him healthy. Especially after Bucky had been so scared that Steve was going to leave.

Bucky rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Yes, Nurse Rogers,” he muttered.

“If you wanna roleplay nurse and patient, just say so, Buck,” Steve teased.

Bucky’s mouth fell open, shocked, before closing slightly into a cacophony of giggles and tiny, endearing snorts at Steve’s innuendo. Of course, his laughs soon devolved into coughing into a nearby tissue.

Steve promptly sat next to Bucky and rubbed his back through the coughs. Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky’s waist and kissed his temple to comfort him. Bucky’s hair smelled like strawberry shampoo and, just a little, like Steve, Steve’s body wash and deodorant and just a little something extra that was just both of their scents all wrapped up  _ together. _

“You’re okay,” Steve said softly, enveloping him in a full side-hug. “I’m here.”

The coughing slowly came to a stop, and Bucky leaned his head on Steve’s shoulder, clearly exhausted. “I guess I’m not all the way better yet,” Bucky whispered, looking down at where his and Steve’s thighs were pressed together.

Steve chuckled at Bucky’s under-exaggeration. “No, I don’t think so.” Steve paused, trying to gauge what shape Bucky was in. Satisfied that Bucky was fine, just recovering from his coughing fit, Steve quietly added, “Maybe you  _ would _ be all the way better if you didn’t smoke.”

“You’re gonna make me laugh again,” Bucky grumbled. He let himself rest on Steve’s shoulder for a moment before tilting his head up to make eye contact with Steve.

“Hi,” Steve said lightly.

“Hi,” Bucky replied. The color on his face from the exertion of coughing had faded, so Steve deemed him healthy enough for Steve to duck down and kiss his forehead.

This felt safe. It felt good to feel Bucky warm and sweet against him. It felt even better when, after letting Bucky go piss and brush his teeth, Bucky came back and settled with his back pressed snugly against Steve’s front. This way, Steve could rub his hand up and down Bucky’s side and kiss Bucky’s neck and listen to him breathe.

Bucky was just dozing, but it felt so much more significant than that. It  _ was _ more significant than that; their legs were tangled together, and Bucky’s ass was flush with Steve’s crotch and he kept sleepily mumbling, “Stevie,” and tugging Steve closer to him. Everything was Bucky. Everything Steve had been missing for months, for years.

It was a million times better than with Peggy. Steve didn’t want to compare, but, to be honest, there  _ was  _ no comparison. Everything that had once felt wrong now felt right. Steve felt utterly comfortable, even as the dawn faded into mid-morning and Steve started getting hungry.

“Buck?” Steve mumbled against the back of Bucky’s neck.

Bucky hummed in response and pulled Steve’s arm tighter around him for the umpteenth time in the past hour.

“Baby, you awake?” The pet name slipped out without another thought. Steve cringed momentarily, but Bucky seemed to like it, mumbling sleepily and scooting somehow closer to Steve. He was warm and soft and loving. Here was another new thing about Bucky as a lover: he hated parting, even if it was just for Steve to scratch his nose or something. Bucky liked to be close.

Whenever Steve so much as shifted, or moved to check his phone, Bucky made a disgruntled, adorably sleepy noise and tugged Steve closer to himself. Steve let Bucky. They’d spent too long avoiding each other’s feelings. It was good,  _ healthy, _ to be able to just cuddle sleepily like this. Well, sleepily for Bucky. For Steve, he was spending most of his time wondering what just the right shading would be to capture Bucky’s nose perfectly onto canvas.

“Is that a yes?” Steve teased.

“Maybe,” Bucky slurred.

Steve smirked and leaned up on his elbow before blowing a raspberry into Bucky’s neck. It was a cheap move, making Bucky squirm out of sleep and firmly into the realm of the very-ticklish waking, but effective.

“What?” Bucky said, giggling, as he shoved half-heartedly at Steve’s shoulder behind him.

“It’s getting a little later. You should eat and drink, keep your strength up. What’s your stomach up for?” Steve resisted the urge to pet Bucky’s flat belly as he asked. Steve didn’t want to bother him with more tickling than the raspberry to his neck since Bucky  _ hated _ being tickled. Plus, Bucky, even though he was no longer feverish, was still recovering, and didn’t need the exertion.

“Soup. Toast, maybe. My stomach still doesn't feel great. And a glass of water, please.”

Steve nodded. Given the way Bucky had been puking the night previous, Steve hadn’t been expecting anything much more extravagant. “Be right back.”

“Wait,” Bucky mumbled, rolling over to face Steve. His hair was a tangled mess, but his eyes were improved from even that morning, bright instead of glassy. “Kiss goodbye?”

Steve chuckled in spite of himself.  _ God, _ Bucky was adorable. Steve ducked down and pressed their lips together, chaste and sweet. Bucky’s lips were chapped -- he was going to need that water.

Steve gently extricated himself and made his way downstairs. Bucky’s parents were probably at work by now, since they worked Saturdays so they could have Monday off and take Bucky’s little sisters to dance class since they were too young to take the bus. Steve was thankful that they were gone, and that he’d been friends with Bucky for so long. Since Bucky was the oldest sibling, Steve had been microwaving leftovers in his boxers in Bucky’s kitchen since before any of Bucky’s siblings were born, so they didn’t bother him other than to wave. Steve loved them almost as much as he loved Bucky, but he wanted to avoid a long conversation with  _ anyone _ so he could get back up to Bucky’s room and take care of his sick boy.

Plus, it saved Steve an awkward conversation. Steve still wasn’t sure how he’d tell Bucky’s family that he was screwing their brother. These were the people who’d seen Steve from the time he’d pissed his pants because he was so angry at a bully in the first grade to his growth spurt all the way to now. His  _ own _ mom didn’t even know that he was screwing his best friend, anyway, and, for Steve, she came before Bucky’s little sisters who probably didn’t know what sex was yet.

Well, Steve countered himself internally, he wasn’t having sex with Bucky quite yet. That could and should wait -- Bucky was sick, and exhausted, and Steve was not about to mess up Bucky’s immune system with an ill-timed blowjob. As much as he wanted to, Steve knew he had to be patient. There’d be plenty of times when Bucky was healthy.

Steve couldn’t help thinking about that when he made his way back up to Bucky’s room, mug of microwaved soup, plastic cup of water, and plate of dry toast in hand. Would Steve be any good at it? He’d never sucked a cock before. Would  _ Bucky _ be any good at it? As far as Steve knew, Bucky was in the same boat. Would Bucky be aggressive while getting his own dick sucked? Steve was terrified of choking and then puking all over Bucky’s dick.

Adding to Steve’s anxiety was the fact that he knew that Bucky was  _ big. _ They’d changed in front of each other enough times that Steve had seen Bucky’s bulge. It was big, bigger than Steve. And Steve was by no means small. And that had been when Bucky was  _ soft. _ What would happen when Bucky was hard?

Steve just wanted to make Bucky feel good, but Steve had an awful gag reflex. And Bucky, as Steve had learned when they’d shotgunned beers the summer before junior year, didn’t have one at all. What if Bucky was a blowjob god and Steve couldn’t even get the head in his mouth? He didn’t want to disappoint Bucky.

Steve consciously forced himself to push these thoughts away as he slid into Bucky’s room, though. Now was the time to focus on making sure that Bucky was healthy, not on Bucky’s presumably gorgeous dick.

Bucky was lying on his stomach, sprawled out on the bed, limbs going twelve different directions. His hoodie had ridden up enough to show the muscles in his lower back, and Steve had to remind himself to sit down and not stare. Steve was supposed to be making sure Bucky was getting better, not ogling him. Though, he probably couldn’t help doing just a  _ little _ bit of the latter.

“Buck? I come bearing food,” Steve announced, partially to get Bucky to sit up and eat and partially so he’d move and Steve’s eyes wouldn’t be glued to his back.

Bucky stirred and heaved himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes like a sleepy toddler trying to push bedtime. The cuteness helped push thoughts of Bucky’s dick out of Steve’s mind. Steve handed the plate of toast to Bucky, put the soup and water down on Bucky’s nightstand, and then leaned over Bucky.

“Hello kiss?” Steve asked quietly. He didn’t want to push Bucky if Bucky wasn’t ready, but Bucky reached up and wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck, pulling him into a full, sweet kiss. Bucky tasted a little like his minty mouthwash, but mostly just warmth and sunshine. There was no waxiness from lipstick, no unpleasant wetness. Just perfect, unadulterated Bucky.

Steve sat down on the bed next to Bucky and started eating. Their knees were pressed together, the contact burning hot and sweet and warm like sunlight on closed eyelids.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Bucky said, smiling as he chewed a bite of toast.

“Anytime, Buck-o.” Steve was being honest. He’d take any opportunity to make sure Bucky was happy. It was integral to the growing, stretching,  _ glowing _ feeling inside Steve.

“Buck-o?” Bucky asked, smirking.

“Do you not like my nickname?” Steve asked, picking up his own piece of toast.

“It’s just  _ swell, _ Steve-o,” Bucky said, snickering.

“Gee, thanks, Buck-o!” Steve’s mouth was full, but he couldn’t help laughing at his own joke. It felt nice, safe here with Bucky. The glowing feeling was filling Steve up, bubbly and excited and practically popping through Steve’s ears.

He could stay there for a thousand years, eating toast and teasing Bucky. “Is your toast  _ swell, _ too?” Steve said in a shitty imitation of Bucky’s voice.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Bucky giggled, flipping Steve the bird.

“Yeah? You love me?” The words rolled off of Steve’s tongue so easily, bright and happy like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. The simple rightness of getting to say that was gratifying. It was different, looser, more relaxed, than with Peggy. More honest too, if Steve was to be truthful.

Steve felt a smile splitting his face, and he welcomed it.

“Duh. Didn’t you hear me last night? Loved you since I could throw you.” Bucky was beaming right back, and it made Steve feel even warmer and safer. This was how it always should have been. No niggling anxious thoughts about Steve’s moral correctness, but just light and comfort. 

“I take offense to that,” Steve teased back.

“Why? It’s honest.”

Steve rolled his eyes and flipped Bucky the bird. Bucky flipped him off right back and they fell into a comfortable silence, smirking at each other without breaking eye contact like the loving idiots they were.

“When did you first realize?” Steve asked after a minute or two of the not quite staring contest. He leaned his head into his palm and his elbow onto his knee, folding himself into a triangle.

Bucky chewed his toast thoughtfully, looking down at his lap as he considered his response. “Fifth grade. You had just been chucked into a dumpster and had an empty yogurt tin on your head,” Bucky replied, smiling fondly like Steve was the first warm day of spring, open and bright and sweet.

Steve remembered what Bucky was alluding to. It had been early fall, and Steve and Bucky had been walking back from one of the last Little League games of the year. Steve hadn’t been much of a hitter then due to his stature, but was a solid outfielder. Bucky, of course, was great at everything, including smacking an impossibly far homerun and scoring three runs, summarily winning the game.

A few members of the other team who had been older, maybe middle schoolers, had been bitter about the loss. They had seen Bucky and Steve walking home and had started making derogatory jokes about them being in a relationship. Steve, of course, had started yelling about homophobia seeing as Sarah Rogers had raised a Social Justice Warrior since day one. However, back then, Steve hadn’t had the body to back up his mouth, and had gotten chucked into a nearby dumpster for his trouble. Bucky had chased after the bullies and wound up finding their moms and telling.

Before he’d launched off after them, though, Bucky’d pulled Steve out of the dumpster. Steve’d been filthy and had had to beg his mother to get special detergent to get the garbage stink out of his uniform. It hadn’t exactly been Steve’s proudest moment, but it had made Bucky love him. That made it worth it.

“Really? That did it for you?”

“Yup. Couldn’t help thinking that, when those assholes were teasing us about being in a relationship, it didn’t sound too bad. How about you?” Bucky asked, drinking some of his soup straight out of the mug. “When did you love me?”

“I’ve loved you forever. Realizing took a little while, though,” Steve chuckled.

“Found someone else. Happens to the best of us,” Bucky teased, but his tone was lower than it normally was when he was joking.

“Hey,” Steve said sharply. Steve couldn’t handle the implication that Bucky hadn’t been Steve’s first choice since day one. It’d just taken Steve a little while to comprehend that his affection for Bucky was . . . a  _ lot _ beyond that of best friends. “Wasn’t like that, okay? I love you, Buck.”

“I know. I love you, too,” Bucky said quietly, clearly expressing the fact that he had just been kidding through the serious, sweet look in his eyes.

“You sure you know?”

“I’m sure.”

Steve paused to take another bite of toast. “So, what took you so long if you’d known for, what, seven years now?” Steve asked, trying to get the conversation back on track to lightheartedness. Bucky needed to know that Steve loved him, but forcibly saying so wasn’t the way to go about that.

“I tried. I, um, brought you daisies a few months ago.” Bucky was flushing and not looking up from his soup.

Steve remembered that, too. Bucky had been dressed up, and shaking, and holding daisies the way a man about to fall from a cliff would grip a nearby root. And Steve had completely ignored him because he was worried about Peggy.  _ Fuck, _ Steve was an idiot. “Oh. I-I didn’t pick up on that.”

“Clearly,” Bucky murmured, smiling softly as if to communicate that it was okay. “I got you daisies ‘cause they remind me of you, you know,” he added after a moment. “They’re pale and kind of soft-looking, but tough as nails. They’re perennials, so they stick around just like you did with me. They close up at night, and sometimes you get like that, all nervous and closed-off, but then they open during the day, all bright and warm, just like you. Plus, they look like little suns, and you’re all bright and fiery and happy like the sun. It was going to be perfect.” Bucky’s eyes closed softly, his outrageously long eyelashes resting on his cheekbones.

“Oh,” Steve sighed softly.

Steve was more than a little overwhelmed at Bucky’s heaping praise. It was consuming in the same way sappy birthday cards were -- making you tear up and blush and chuckle all at once. Still, it made Steve’s glowing feeling bubble over until he could hardly contain it. He reached for Bucky’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “That was really thoughtful, honey.”

Bucky flushed and opened his eyes, but his gaze focused on their joined hands rather than Steve’s face. “Thank Natasha. She helped me pick ‘em.”

“Natasha? I thought she hated you.” Steve ran his thumbs over Bucky’s knuckles.  _ God, _ that felt nice.

Bucky chuckled. “She did. Um, at the Lakehouse party, I said, uh, your name instead of hers. She was a little pissed about it for a while, but then she decided to help us get together.”

That fit at least a little more with what Steve knew. To Steve’s knowledge, Nat had gone from breaking Bucky’s nose to, just a few months later, having an, albeit heated, private conversation with Bucky that Steve had overheard between them after the team had qualified for the playoffs. Nat and Bucky had kept talking about stuff they couldn’t tell “him.” Steve’s heart swelled as he belatedly realized that he must have been “him.” Bucky had been so  _ nervous. _ If Steve had his way, Bucky would never feel like that again. If it was up to Steve, Bucky would never feel another negative emotion  _ ever. _

“Oh,” Steve said, a flattered blush filling his cheeks. “What changed?”

“Well,” Bucky began, a tiny grin stretching his lips. “Nat had a crush on Clint.”

“What, what?” Steve blurted. Nat had a crush on  _ Clint _ of all people?! Nat was composed, calm, and conniving, as evidenced by her plot to get revenge on Bucky by telling Steve that Bucky loved him. Clint, to put it lightly, was a hot mess. He pitched well, but maintained a D-average, got high or drunk or both every weekend, and had once tongued a moldy piece of pizza on a dare. It was an odd couple, to say the least.

“Yeah. I don’t get it either. Opposites attract or whatever. Anyway, I knew about it, and said that if she fucked things up between us, or between you and Peggy, I’d tell Clint all about how she’d given me chlamydia last year and then lied and said it wasn’t her.”

“Wait,” Steve repeated. “You were trying to keep me and Peggy together?”

“Well, duh. She made you happy. I wasn’t about to jeopardize that. That’s why I didn’t tell you I loved you when I had the daisies. Peggy was over. I couldn’t do that to you, or her. It wouldn’t be fair.” Bucky’s eyes were open now, and they held a serious, soft luminosity. If Steve was Bucky’s sun, Bucky was undoubtedly Steve’s moon and stars and galaxies. Artistic and enamoring and mysterious, but bright and comforting. Helping Steve navigate.

Steve felt himself  _ melt. _ He squeezed Bucky’s hand to ground himself. Bucky really loved Steve. Instead of trying to just get to date Steve, Bucky actually tried to make sure Steve was  _ happy. _ “Oh, Buck. You did that for me?” Steve whispered, afraid that the warmth filling him would fully boil over and he’d cry if he talked any louder. He didn’t wanna make Bucky comfort  _ him, _ not after all this.

“‘Course, Stevie. It sucked, but I love you.”

“But still. That must have killed you.” Steve asked.

“It wasn’t easy,” Bucky said, huffing a sound that could maybe be considered a laugh if Steve didn’t care about Bucky an iota as much as he did. “I care about you and your happiness, ya know,” Bucky continued. He was smirking a little bit, but his eyes were round, worried. Nervous about being rejected by Steve, if Steve had to guess.

If only Bucky knew how wrong he was. Steve wasn’t going anywhere.

Steve carefully picked the empty plate of toast up and put it on the ground next to the bed, refusing to release Bucky’s hand. “You all done with your soup?” he asked, squeezing Bucky’s hand in a gesture of reassurance. It seemed to work, Bucky relaxing and leaning back into his pillow mountain, if only slightly. His eyes were a little less worried.

“Yeah. Why?” Bucky asked, placing the mug back on the nightstand carefully.

“Wanna-” Steve cut himself off and took a shuddering deep breath. “Need to kiss you. That okay?” Steve couldn’t help flushing at how openly he was just sharing this. With Peggy, she initiated most things and Steve was just happy to be along for the ride. With Bucky, though, Steve practically couldn’t help himself from stating how badly he wanted Bucky, in every way: sensual, romantic, sexual.

Bucky had protected Steve’s happiness to the best of his ability. He’d loved Steve for years. He’d bought Steve daisies. Who cared if Steve and Bucky didn’t have titles for each other yet. At the very least, Bucky was Steve’s  _ person. _ Definitively and for as long into the future as Steve could stand.

Bucky smiled and bit his bottom lip in a way that drove Steve  _ crazy. _ “I can get behind that.”

Steve leaned forward and cupped his free hand around Bucky’s neck, pressing them closer. As nice as last night had been, cuddled snug and close while they kissed, having Bucky no longer feverish and crying was a welcome change. Knowing what Bucky had done made it even better.

Bucky’s free hand tugged and pulled at Steve, and grabbed at Steve’s shoulders. He had enough strength to pull Steve down on top of him with only one arm, and Bucky used the opportunity to wrap his sweatpant-clad legs around Steve’s waist.

“Am I crushing you?” Steve asked at the sudden change of positions, pulling back just enough so his words were clear.

“In a good way,” Bucky murmured, shifting his attention to Steve’s jaw and neck.

It tickled sweetly, and Steve felt goosebumps raise on his arms. That was new. Steve had slept with one person, made out with plenty more, and no one had gotten Steve to break out in goosebumps like this, made him shiver when their fingertips slid up Steve’s borrowed shirt and grazed his hips. Steve wanted him. Wanted to hold him, thank him,  _ love _ him. Still, Steve had to focus. His Bucky still needed to be treated gently -- Bucky was recovering, after all.

“Are you sure? I know the fever’s gone, but you’re not at full strength,” Steve asked, squeezing Bucky’s hip as a reminder that Steve wanted him, loved him, and was just checking in rather than asking to stop.

“You’re gonna be a protective boyfriend, huh, Stevie?” Bucky asked, beginning to suck on the base of Steve’s neck in the beginning of a hickey.

“Boyfriend?” Steve blurted, distracted from his mission of communicating his love by how nice that word sounded.

Bucky pulled back from his ministrations. His lips were just a little bit pink from all the contact, and it went straight to Steve’s groin. “That okay with you? We don’t need to define anything yet, if you’re not ready,” Bucky said quickly, removing his hand from Steve’s hip in favor of petting up and down Steve’s side like he was soothing an upset horse. The hand twined with Steve’s held fast, though, not budging an inch. Steve liked that a lot.

“I just, uh . . .” Steve trailed off, searching for the words to explain that he’d just gotten excited about the word because he loved Bucky immensely, and it sounded perfect.

“It’s okay if you’re not. Just tell me,” Bucky soothed, licking his lips like he did when he was nervous.

“No, Buck, I just. . . . That terminology didn’t click until now. I like it. A lot,” Steve rambled, squeezing the hand at the back of Bucky’s neck like the contact would help convey his sincerity.

“Promise?” Bucky asked, hand stilling at the small of Steve’s back.

“Promise. Now c’mere.”

They kissed a little more, pausing every so often for Bucky to drink something, or for Steve to run his lips over Bucky’s jaw, not kissing but just feeling, or for Steve to shed his shirt, or for Bucky to sit up a little more so Steve was crushing Bucky less.

Their hands never separated for more than a moment or two.

“Stevie?” Bucky asked after maybe ten minutes since their last adjustment. Steve was straddling Bucky’s chest, balancing his weight on his knees and the one hand resting on the headboard. Bucky was kissing up and down Steve’s chest, and his lips hadn’t left Steve’s sternum when he spoke. It tickled more than a little, but Steve just squeezed Bucky’s shoulder with the hand that had been on the headboard instead of squirming away. He couldn’t bear to do that, especially not now, and maybe not ever.

“What’s up, baby?” Steve asked.

Bucky seemed to like the pet name, giggling and arching into Steve as he kissed Steve’s sternum more firmly. Bucky’s hand came around to press warmly into the spot between Steve’s shoulder blades.

“Bucky?” Steve asked, looking down his chest at the top of Bucky’s head. Bucky’s hair was a tangled mess and his lips were chapped, but he looked absolutely stunning. 

Steve’s beautiful  _ boyfriend. _

Bucky reluctantly pulled back and tilted his head to look up at Steve upside-down. “Can I suck you?” he whispered simply, dipping his fingers into the waistband of Steve’s boxers before retracting them and instead running them along Steve’s hips and iliac furrow.

Steve sat back onto his knees. There was more space between him and Bucky than he would have liked, but that was probably good given the circumstances. Their hands were still joined. They weren’t going anywhere.

“Buck, honey, did you hear your voice yesterday? No way am I letting you shove my dick down your throat.”

Bucky groaned and reached for Steve’s other, lacing their fingers there, too. “Please? I promise I’m all better.”

Steve shook his head. He would  _ never _ harm his sweet baby, even if Bucky wanted it. “Sweetheart, you were in bad fucking shape. You need to recover.”

Bucky squeezed both of Steve’s hands. “I’ll make it so good, Stevie. Please.”

Bucky was pouting and the sight made Steve painfully aware of his erection, but he resolutely ignored it. “Bucky,” Steve murmured, lifting their joined hands and kissing Bucky’s knuckles on both sides. “If I had it my way, you’d be doing nothing but watching TV and letting yourself be babied all day today. Even this is pushing it.”

Bucky let his head fall back against the pillows theatrically.  _ “Please?” _ Bucky said to the ceiling.

“Buck, honey, I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“You’re hard,” Bucky said as if that was a reasonable argument.

“Yeah. You know why?”

“Why?” Bucky said back, making eye contact again.

“Because you’re gorgeous and sexy and I care about you. Which is  _ also  _ exactly why I’m gonna go to the bathroom and take care of this, and let you do the same in here. Then, when we’re done, you’re gonna take a fucking nap and I’m gonna text my mom where I ended up because she’s probably worried since it’s like two in the afternoon.” Steve didn’t want to let go of Bucky’s hands, but he’d rather that than let Bucky be hurt.

Bucky pouted, and fuck if that didn’t threat Steve’s resolve.

“And then?” Bucky prompted petulantly. God, he was sweet.

“Then I’m gonna cuddle you and kiss your neck and shoulders until you wake up.”

“And pet my hair?”

Steve laughed. Not even twenty-four hours in, and here Bucky was, already spoiled. He deserved it, Steve figured. “And pet your hair,” Steve agreed amiably.

“And then what?”

_ “Then, _ I’m gonna steal some of your clothes and head home and see my mom.”

“This deal’s getting worse all the time,” Bucky mumbled.

_ “And then, _ I’m going to call you tonight and make sure you sleep okay. Then I’m gonna be as close to you as possible for as long as possible as often as possible until I’m old and yell at the kids playing catch on our lawn. Sound good?”

That made Bucky positively  _ beam, _ kissing Steve’s knuckles right back. “Sure, pal. Be back soon, okay?” Bucky asked plaintively.

“Always.”

“You’re my boyfriend,” Bucky whispered happily.

“Yeah, Buck. I’m your boyfriend.”

“I like that.”

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Only one chapter and an epilogue left. It's been a whirlwind to say the least.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last real chapter! Thank you for sticking with this story. It means a lot.
> 
> As a gift, have nearly 10k words of smut!
> 
> I should be posting a short epilogue soon. Thanks again!

“Shit.  _ Shit,” _ Steve muttered, kicking his trash can and ignoring the tissues and scraps of paper that spilled out. “Fuck!”

Bucky’s phone was clutched in Steve’s hand. The screen showed the results of the semi-final league games. On one side of the bracket, Steve and Bucky’s high school’s logo was proudly displayed. On the other side, as of ten minutes ago, was the logo of the team who had won the State Championship the year previous. The same team that had absolutely crushed Steve and Bucky the day after Homecoming, ruining their undefeated season.

Now, in the fucking  _ Championship game, _ Steve and Bucky were absolutely fucked. The one team they weren’t able to beat was now the team they had to face in the Championship. Steve wasn’t sure how, if at all, he’d be able to cope with coming so close to winning a League Championship just to lose it at the last second.

Any joy in Steve’s heart from winning the semi-final was immediately extinguished by the new reality of the fact that they were going to lose the Championship. Going to lose the game that actually mattered. Steve ran his hands through his hair, feeling more stressed and panicked and scared than he could ever remember being.

Steve couldn’t let this all fall apart now. All his effort, his years of refusing to drink and eating healthy and exercising was for nothing. All his mental effort of devising new drills and ways to train his team were worthless.

Bucky wasn’t fairing much better than Steve, stresswise. He was pacing across Steve’s bedroom, his bare feet burning a line into the plush carpet of Steve’s bedroom. Bucky was running his hand through his hair repeatedly, tangling it. It was the most unhappy Steve had seen Bucky since he’d been crying the night before they got together.

It was such a contrast to the past few weeks that Steve was immediately worried about more than just the game. Since getting together, Bucky had been an adorable, cuddly boyfriend. Both Bucky and Steve had been as happy as they’d ever been since they’d gotten together. 

They’d been more in sync than ever during games and practices, leading drills and encouraging their teammates in near-unison. The team had seen an improvement, too: they’d shut out two of the last four playoff games, and won the other two without it being too painfully close. They, and the team, were in great shape.

Off the field, Steve and Bucky had taken every opportunity to be near each other. It was natural and easy. When they’d just be friends, they’d watch a movie and throw popcorn at each other. Now that they were more than just friends, they’d do the exact same thing, but cuddle and kiss and feed each other the kernels that had fallen to the floor, too. When they were just friends, they’d run sprints and time each other. Now that they were boyfriends, they’d do the same thing, but kiss after each set. “For encouragement,” Steve had said, whereas Bucky had argued it was because Steve “couldn’t get enough of this tight ass.”

Plus, there was all the stuff they did that they  _ didn’t _ used to do at all. Like when they made out on Steve’s couch until their lips were tingling. Or the way Steve would play with Bucky’s hair whenever he had the chance, and had even figured out how to braid it. Or the way Bucky had taken to lying on Steve’s chest just because he liked the sound of Steve’s heartbeat.

All of that easy, light happiness was seemingly gone now and Steve felt his chest ache with the need to make Bucky happy.

“We’re fucked for the Championship, huh?” Steve said in an attempt to both commiserate, since he wasn’t quite calm either, and get Bucky to get out of his own head.

Bucky had paused his pacing and was now leaning against Steve’s window, lighting a cigarette and carefully blowing the smoke out of the room so he wouldn’t trigger Steve’s asthma. His forehead was pushing against the window screen, the strands of hair that had fallen out of Steve’s shitty attempt at a braid framing his cheeks. Even though Steve was about to explode from stress, he couldn’t help but take a moment to study his beautiful boyfriend.

Bucky’s cheeks were hollowed pensively around his cigarette, making Steve’s hands itch to sketch it, just quickly. Bucky was wearing a black muscle shirt, and his toned arms would have distracted Steve’s downstairs if Steve wasn’t so concerned about him and the game. Bucky’s long legs were sticking out of his black athletic shorts, tanned and powerful. God, Steve loved Bucky’s muscles.

Bucky had said he’d loved Steve since he could throw him. He had been referencing Steve’s stature before his massive growth spurt, but Steve was pretty sure that if Bucky really set his mind to it, he could probably throw Steve now, all 200 plus pounds of him, and  _ fuck _ if that wasn’t hot as hell. They hadn’t done anything beyond heavy making out, and Steve was fine taking it slow, but he still wanted Bucky desperately.

Steve was still bothered, both about the game and about Bucky’s unhappiness, but Steve couldn’t deny the fact that his dick was more interested in Bucky’s looks than it was about their potential failure to win the Championship.

Bucky, meanwhile, was clearly staying focused on the game rather than his attraction for his boyfriend. Bucky took another drag of his cigarette, shifting his weight from foot to foot. It would have looked like he needed to pee if Steve didn’t know that this was one of Bucky’s tells that he was nervous.

“Buck?” Steve asked, setting the phone down in favor of tending to his boyfriend.

“I’m fine, Stevie,” Bucky said, still looking out the window as he took another drag of his cigarette. “We were all hung over at that game. If we’re all sober, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

That was true. When they’d lost to their now-competitors for the League Championship a few months ago, it had been right after the Homecoming dance. Everyone, Steve included, had been plastered the night previous, and were in bad shape the next day. They wouldn’t be at that disadvantage this time. Still, Steve was concerned.

This was a  _ good _ fucking team. They were big, strong. Could throw further, hit harder than even Steve, even on his best day. There was no way this was going to go well.

Steve’s  _ soul _ felt like it was shriveling up as his focus shifted fully to the Championship. The infinite worries started crashing down on Steve’s head, one after the other, like a broken wave pool at an abandoned waterpark. If Steve didn’t do well at the championship, scouts wouldn’t be interested in him. “He plays fine, but he chokes,” they’d say. He’d lose any chance at a scholarship, and thus not be able to afford college. He’d have to live with his mom, maybe get a job at McDonald’s or something, where the smell of week-old-fries would seep into his clothes permanently and the smoke from the kitchen would probably trigger his asthma.

“Fuck, Bucky, I don’t know if I can do this,” Steve suddenly uttered, the words out before he comprehended them. His hands came up to cup his forehead.

He didn’t want to fuck this up, both for him and for the team. He couldn’t let everyone down like this. He could already see his mother’s disappointed but comforting smile. . . .

“Steve.” Bucky’s voice was firm enough that Steve peeked through his fingers to look at Bucky. Bucky had stubbed his cigarette out on the windowsill, and was now leaning against it, his eyes narrowed in determination.

“Yeah?” Steve asked, moving his hand to wrap around his middle and looking at Bucky fully.

“You’re gonna be fine.  _ We’re _ gonna be fine. And if we’re not, I’ll strip to support us, and you can stay home with the kids, okay?” Bucky was deadpan, but one corner of his lips was turned up at his own joke.

Steve smiled back weakly at Bucky’s attempt to cheer him up. “I just don’t want to fuck everything up,” he mumbled.

Bucky shook his head firmly. “You won’t, Stevie. You are an amazing player and person, and this is just a game like any other.”

Steve blushed at the compliment and stared down at his feet. Bucky was so wrong. Any other game wouldn’t have insanely high stakes. Any other game wouldn’t leave a swirling, nauseous feeling in Steve’s belly that he’d only felt just before he’d broken up with Peggy. “It’s not, though.  _ God, _ Bucky, it’s not at all.”

Steve’s eyes stayed fixed on his bare feet. He wasn’t ready to disappoint his coaches, his team, the scouts. He didn’t want to fuck everything up because of one fucking game. He was a good player, but one game was going to ruin it. He worked so  _ fucking hard, _ but no one was going to care when he lost. Steve wasn’t ready to let everyone down.

Steve was so deep in his own head that he jumped when another pair of bare feet appeared in his field of vision. Steve looked up, eyes round and burning.

Bucky was staring down at Steve, his expression stern and soft and sweet all at once. His eyes were full of gentleness, but his eyebrows were knit and his mouth was turned into a soft frown. “What’s so different?” he asked, one arm coming to squeeze Steve’s shoulder. “Nine innings, three outs per. Seventh inning stretch. Obscenely hot outfielders Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. What’s different?”

Steve shook his head at Bucky’s attempt at both logic and a joke.

“Tell me,” Bucky prompted. “What’s different?”

The frustrating thing was that Bucky was right. It was just a game. Steve had played in hundreds, maybe thousands of those. By all logic, he should be fine. But the stakes were so much higher. And Steve couldn’t think about this game without feeling sick.

Steve made a disgruntled sound and collapsed forward into Bucky’s stomach, wrapping his own arms around Bucky’s middle and squeezing tightly. Bucky smelled like soap and detergent and a little bit like cigarettes in a way that wasn’t quite as unpleasant as it should have been because this was Bucky’s scent. Steve inhaled the smell greedily, trying to calm himself.

“I don’t wanna disappoint anyone,” Steve whispered into Bucky’s shirt.

Bucky sighed and lifted one hand to stroke Steve’s hair, the other still holding Steve’s shoulder. “You’re not disappointing anyone. You are a good person who makes good choices and is  _ fucking good at baseball. _ One game will  _ never _ change that.” Bucky’s hand tightened in Steve’s hair.

“What about scouts, though?” Steve asked plaintively, rubbing his cheek against Bucky’s belly. The sensation of his soft shirt helped soothe Steve, if only a little bit. “What if I suck and they only see that one game?”

“Then they’ll step back and take a look at your entire record and think, ‘Fuck, I need to sign this kid.’”

Bucky had such conviction, it almost made Steve feel better. He nuzzled closer to Bucky, tightening his arms. “Promise?” Steve mumbled after a minute.

Bucky laughed, the sound reverberating into Steve’s body. “Promise.”

Steve pushed his nose into Bucky’s stomach. He could feel Bucky’s abs through his shirt, hard and hot. It was insane how Bucky was incredibly sweet and caring, yet simultaneously the sexiest, hottest person Steve had ever even conceived of. Didn’t make any sense how Steve was so lucky.

“You are incredible, Stevie. I love you. You’re gonna be just fine, sweetheart.” Bucky’s hand was starting to rub through Steve’s head, stroking his hair. Even that small gesture had Steve melting against Bucky.

“Plus,” Bucky added, his voice gentle, “we fucking  _ made _ it to the Championship in the first place! Only one other team did that, Stevie.”

That was true. They hadn’t gotten to the Championship game at all during Steve’s entire four years on the team. No matter what, they were doing better than they had ever before.

“Everything else is just gravy, Stevie. And, if we lose, you’ll still have this tight ass to look at. Isn’t that prize enough?”

Steve hiccupped a laugh, because everything Bucky was saying was hilarious and right.

The Championship was a game. Steve had a whole season of good games (barring the one after Homecoming) for scouts to look at. And Steve would have Bucky, win or lose. It would be okay. The realization made Steve flush and press a soft kiss to Bucky’s stomach through his shirt.

It didn’t matter who they were playing, or if they won. Steve had worked hard all season. The championship was the cherry on top.

“Buck?” Steve asked after a moment.

“Yes, Stevie?”

“Why am I the stay at home dad?”

Bucky began to slide his hand through Steve’s hair, stroking it lightly. “Huh?”

“You said you’d strip to support our family when we lost, and I’d take care of the kids. So, why do you get to be a stripper, and I have to be a stay at home dad?”

Bucky giggled before responding, the sound traveling down Steve’s body. He felt safe and lovely, being held like this, arms around Bucky’s middle and Bucky in between Steve’s legs. Even if Steve lost the Championship, he’d have Bucky. And just that thought had Steve relaxing and tilting his chin up to make eye contact with Bucky again.

Bucky was smiling softly as he murmured, “Have you seen this bod, babe?  _ This _ is the money maker.”

_ “‘Babe?’  _ Isn’t that a little treacly?” Steve teased as he raised an eyebrow, not really annoyed. He loved how Bucky could cheer him up, if only a little but, through only a few stupid jokes. He loved how Bucky looked right now, sexy and sweet and perfect. He loved Bucky.

“Not at all, babe,” Bucky confirmed, gently squeezing Steve’s shoulders to prompt him to let go of Bucky’s waist before turning and plopping next to Steve, way closer than they would have sat even a month previous. They were pressed together, thigh-to-thigh, hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder. “You got a problem with it, Rogers?”

“Not at all, sugarpie,” Steve replied easily, happy to joke instead of focus on his lingering nerves.

“‘Sugarpie?’ Okay, even I’ve gotta admit, that’s a  _ little _ much.” Bucky was laughing, his side shaking Steve. Steve liked being close enough to Bucky to feel him laughing, feel his happiness. It made Steve feel warm all over, like he was lying in the sun with a blanket all over him.

Losing the Championship didn’t feel like it mattered so much when he felt like he was wrapped in sunshine.

“You don’t like it, babycakes?” Steve asked with mock innocence.

Bucky rolled his eyes graciously. “C’mere, sweetie-lovebug o’ mine.”

Bucky leaned closer to Steve and tilted his head to the side. Steve met him in the middle, their lips locking gently. Steve lifted one hand from the bed to Bucky’s braid and tugged out the hairband, running his fingers through the braid to undo it.

“Hey,” Bucky mumbled against Steve’s lips, “you worked hard on that braid.”

That was true. Steve had watched probably fifteen YouTube tutorials before attempting it on Bucky’s sinfully soft hair. It had been nice, getting to touch and be close to Bucky for such an extended period of time, even in a non-sexual, barely-sensual way. Of course, that’d fallen apart when Steve had seen the semi-final results.

When Steve had his lips on Bucky’s, though, that didn’t seem to matter much.

“I’ll redo it after,” Steve promised, kissing both of Bucky’s blushing cheeks before pressing their lips together again.

“After? That’s awful presumptuous of you, baby-schmoopsie poo-love muffin,” Bucky said, breaking the kiss to move down to Steve’s neck.

“You’re the worst,” Steve giggled as Bucky blew a raspberry into the hollow of his throat. “I’m gonna start freaking out again just to annoy you.” That wasn’t true. Steve wasn’t panting with nerves anymore.

Instead, he felt safe and loved, because he was.

“Yeah?” Bucky mumbled, shifting to kiss both of Steve’s cheeks right on the apples in a mirror of Steve seconds earlier.

“Yeah. Just ‘cause you’re the worst.”

“But you love me.” Bucky’s voice was sing-song as he slid a hand under Steve’s shirt and rubbed Steve’s side.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “Yeah, I do.”

Bucky took that as encouragement to swing his leg over Steve’s, straddling him. Steve’s hands flew to Bucky’s hips, pushing up his muscle shirt and rubbing the smooth skin of his abdomen. Steve focused on rubbing firmly and regularly so Bucky wouldn’t squirm away, ticklish.

Bucky was giggling anyway, though, so Steve moved his hands and let Bucky climb over Steve to lie on his back on the bed, head on a pillow so he was comfortable.

Steve took the barest of moments to appreciate how Bucky looked all spread out. It didn’t make sense that someone that gorgeous was that kind. Steve didn’t understand how someone could have two qualities in so much abundance all at once. Steve was a lucky motherfucker.  _ This _ was Steve’s best guy, a guy who could yank Steve back from the brink of an anxiety attack with a few sweet comments, soft touches, and well-placed jokes.

Whatever god had brought Bucky into Steve’s life, who had brought Bucky into the world at all, was a fucking genius. Nothing else could combine such full lips with such bright eyes and such a sweet, jovial personality and leave it all for Steve to enjoy.

Before Steve could get too poetic, though, Bucky, who had settled less than five seconds earlier, tugged at Steve’s shirt impatiently. “C’mere,” Bucky was whining. “You’re too far away.”

Steve rolled his eyes dramatically, with no heat behind it, and slotted himself in between Bucky’s legs, leaning down to kiss him. Bucky made a happy humming noise and pressed his lips harder to Steve’s. 

Steve whispered a laugh and returned the kiss. Bucky’s hands moved to settle on Steve’s ass, but Steve’s hands roamed, reaching to tuck Bucky’s hair behind his ears, rub Bucky’s shoulders, stroke delicately at the sensitive skin around his throat. Anything to make Bucky feel good and loved and wanted, because,  _ God, _ he was.

Meanwhile, Steve’s tongue was having a field day in Bucky’s mouth. Steve’d long since learned how to make out well, and Bucky was clearly enjoying Steve’s expertise, moaning and grinding up against Steve.

In no time at all, Bucky was hard, impressively so as he grinded up against Steve’s stomach, and Steve gasped against Bucky’s lips.

Steve himself had been flying at half-mast since starting to make out with Bucky, but feeling the evidence of Bucky’s arousal had Steve  _ whimpering _ in an equal mix of horniness and nerves _ . _

On one hand, Bucky was hard. Steve was on his way there, too. Steve really did want to make Bucky feel good, be intimate with him in that way. Steve wanted Bucky’s cheeks to get all ruddy and for Bucky to moan Steve’s name while he came all over his and Steve’s bellies. Steve wanted Bucky to make Steve come, too. Steve wanted to bite into a pillow while he spent, and have Bucky kiss him after and tell him that he was beautiful. Steve wanted that so badly he felt his mouth water at the mere  _ idea _ of getting Bucky’s dick in his mouth. After all, the realization that he loved Bucky came, in part, from a whole lot of lust for Bucky. The recurring dream that started Steve’s realization of his intense attraction to Bucky (which had thankfully been absent for almost a month now) was even  _ about _ a blowjob. Steve wasn’t sure he was ready for anything else, but a blowjob would be nice. Steve wanted it.

At the same time, though, Bucky was  _ hard. _ Which meant that he wanted Steve, and Steve was terrified of messing things up. Messing them up badly. Steve couldn’t help but think back to his worries about giving Bucky a blowjob from a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to choke, or bite Bucky. Bucky was  _ big. _ Steve didn’t know how that would be conducive to a good blowjob. How would Bucky be able to relax enough to come all over himself if he was too worried about Steve choking and dying. What if Steve got an asthma attack while attempting to deepthroat Bucky? Steve wanted everything to be perfect for Bucky, but he’d never sucked a dick before.

Steve had sudden visions of barfing all over Bucky’s dick and Bucky walking out in a huff. He looked so nice in his muscle shirt, and Steve didn’t want to ruin it with vomit.

Steve gently pulled back and sat up, still perched on Bucky’s thighs, and wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his shirt, trying to suck in a breath deep enough to calm down. So to speak. Christ, Steve needed to chill.

“What’s up?” Bucky asked, his hands immediately going to Steve’s biceps and rubbing up and down soothingly. “Are you still worried about the Championship?”

Steve shook his head mutely. The Championship was the last thing on his mind now that he’d been confronted with his sexy, sweet, concerned specimen of a boyfriend.

“What do you need?” Bucky asked, squeezing Steve’s biceps with worry lacing his features.

Steve shook his head again and took a deep breath. This was Bucky. Steve could always talk to Bucky.

“I would like to suck your dick. Please,” Steve said haltingly.

A wide smile spread across Bucky’s lips, and he put on hand over his mouth, his head tilted back to face the wall. His hips and belly were shaking. He was holding back a laugh. After a moment, Bucky looked up and positively beamed at Steve. “I’m glad you said ‘please.’ I wouldn’t let you otherwise.”

Steve shoved half-heartedly at Bucky’s shoulder in response to the teasing, but Steve couldn’t really push him anywhere since Bucky was flat on his back on the bed. “I’m feeling nervous,” Steve confessed after another minute of Bucky blushing as he tried to hold back his giggles.

Bucky’s stifled laughter came to an abrupt halt when Steve said that, though, and he leaned up on his forearms so he could more easily make eye contact with Steve. He was still smiling just a bit. “Nervous about what, bud?”

Steve rubbed his palms down his own thighs. “I wanna make you feel good. I don’t wanna mess up. And y-you’re. . .”

“Take your time, honey,” Bucky reassured.

Steve took a deep breath before continuing, “You’re really big and I don’t wanna choke and barf on you.”

That set Bucky to laughing again, openly this time. When he calmed down, he looked Steve straight in the eye. His expression was serious, but alight with mirth. “Let’s talk about this, okay?”

Steve nodded. Bucky would take care of Steve. They loved each other. Bucky wouldn’t let something bad happen to him. 

“About making me feel good, we’ll communicate, sweetheart. If you’re not making me feel good or vice versa, we’ll do something else. As for the, um . . .” Bucky had the grace to blush as he finished,  _ “size issue, _ I’m not expecting you to be, like, a porn-star deepthroater or anything. There are different things we can do so you’re comfortable. Anything else you’re worried about?”

“Um,” Steve wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts again. “How will we communicate if I have your dick in my mouth?”

Bucky laughed again, groaning as he squeezed Steve’s sides. “You’re killing me, Stevie. You can pull off if you need to talk, baby. You’ve had your dick sucked before. You know that’s an option, right?”

Steve flushed and looked down to where his hips were slotted with Bucky’s. He’d been so far up his own head that he hadn’t even thought about that. That was seeming to be a theme.

“It’s okay. We can always stop if you’re unhappy.” Bucky squeezed Steve’s sides again like it was punctuation.

“What if you’re feeling good but I’m unhappy?” Steve mumbled plaintively, still avoiding eye contact.

“Then I won’t be feeling good. It’s that simple, Steve. What else do you wanna talk about?”

Steve nodded. “What did you mean when you said ‘vice versa?’”

Bucky’s blush from before brightened and spread to his neck, creeping under the collar of his muscle shirt. “I was hoping I’d be able to reciprocate. That okay, sweetheart?”

Steve squirmed at the pet name, looking down at Bucky’s stomach to avoid making eye contact. “I’d like that,” he mumbled after a moment.

“You ready now? Your mom shouldn’t be back for a few hours at least.”

Now. Steve’s fantasies were going to come true  _ now.  _ That was just a lot to take in all at once.

Steve’s breathing started to accelerate, and he reached for Bucky’s shoulders, pulling him up into a soft, sweet kiss. Bucky was sweet and ever-insistent, his arms coming round to wrap around Steve’s waist and hug him into Bucky’s chest as close as possible.

Steve lifted his hands up to gently cup Bucky’s cheeks and rub his thumbs along Bucky’s jaw, finding all the little spots on it that Steve loved. The spot just under his left ear that made goosebumps raise all along his arm. The place on his right side, almost parallel with the end of his eyebrow, that had a little scar on it from when Bucky was first learning how to shave. The cleft in his chin. Steve loved it all.

Bucky’s lips were pressed only lightly to Steve’s, gentle and warm. Soothing, Steve realized belatedly. Bucky was trying to reassure Steve that this, sex, was going to be okay. And it was. 

Steve was safe, and happy, and as wanted as he was wanting. The Championship didn’t matter. Steve was with his best guy.

Steve pulled back, just a fraction, their foreheads still pressing into each other. “I love you,” he murmured.

Bucky tilted his chin into Steve’s hand and rubbed against it, catlike. “Love you right back. Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” Steve said, confident in his decision. This was good. Steve was comfortable and safe and very, very clearly adored by his partner. Bucky would keep Steve safe. Bucky said that they’d communicate and Steve trusted Bucky to take good care of him.

“Can I take your shirt off?” Steve asked, swallowing hard.

Bucky nodded mutely, and Steve took the opportunity to plant one more hard, close-mouthed kiss on Bucky’s lips before slipping his hands under the loose muscle shirt and tugging it off. Bucky held his arms above his head to help, and Steve loved Bucky so much in that moment that it ached in his sides, back, and belly.

Steve flung the shirt behind him, uncaring about where it ended up. Bucky surged forward to capture Steve’s lips again, but Steve planted his hands on Bucky’s shoulders to stop him. He didn’t want to kiss more, not yet.

“Steve?” Bucky asked, concern lacing his voice.

“Just need a minute,” Steve mumbled, trying to soothe Bucky. Bucky should never be concerned during something like this.

Steve pressed on Bucky’s shoulders to get him to lie back, and Bucky went easily, flopping back. His hair poofed out beautifully when he collapsed back, and Steve smiled to himself. His boyfriend was gorgeous.

“You’re the prettiest person. Most handsome, too. And beautiful. And everything in between,” Steve gushed honestly. It was true. Bucky was laid out for Steve like a fucking painting (or a buffet, depending on how poetic Steve felt like being), and Steve wouldn’t trade the sight for the world. 

Bucky was shirtless for Steve.

It was something Steve had seen a million times before, but this time it was different. He’d seen Bucky shirtless while they were changing, or at the pool, or in the locker room. Steve had even seen Bucky shirtless in a sexual situation, when he’d walked in on Bucky and Natasha after she’d broken Bucky’s nose. But it had never been like this. It had never been specifically  _ for Steve. _ But this was all for Steve, for his pleasure. For  _ their _ intimacy.

“Prettiest, handsomest,  _ and _ most beautiful? You gotta let People Magazine know, Steve, they’ve been titling people wrong all these years,” Bucky remarked teasingly.

Steve flicked Bucky’s sternum in retribution, and Bucky giggled at his own joke. “Sue me if I’m at a loss for words, Buck. You have no idea what mental handicaps I’m having to deal with here, looking at you like this.”

It was true. Bucky was just . . . wow. A painting that Steve wished he had the talent to create. Bucky was buff from hours and hours working out for the season. He had smooth lines outlining his abdomen, and his pecs . . .  _ Jesus, _ his pecs. Steve wanted to kiss them until they were pink all over. They stood up from Bucky’s torso, making the curve into his sternum even more dramatic. And the way his arms stood out, muscular and strong enough to hold Steve and make him feel safe all the time. Christ, even his fucking armpit hair was managing to do it for Steve.

Steve wasn’t even sure  _ how _ he had enough blood in his head to comprehend what he was seeing, what with all the blood that was rushing to his dick. That seemed to be the case for Bucky, too -- under his athletic shorts, he was pitching a tent that made Steve’s stomach roll with excited anticipation.

It was like the butterflies that lived in Steve’s stomach had been replaced with an angry pride of lions, tearing at his organs until Steve had to consciously remind himself to breathe. The lions got more excited when Steve let his eyes drift past Bucky’s abs to his hips. His shorts were slung low enough that Steve could see the end of the remnants of Bucky’s tan from summer, his skin’s golden cast contrasting starkly with the beginning of the winter-pale skin nestled next to it, warm and snug like Bucky liked to be against Steve.

And his Adonis lines. . . .  _ Shit. _ Steve, if he had been struggling to form words before, was now completely lost. Steve knew that Bucky was ticklish there, and it made some amount of sense. No one touched Bucky there unless they were closely intimate, so the skin was sensitive. But now, Steve could touch there. Bucky was all his.

The realization felt like euphoria to Steve. Here was a beautiful man, one who was clever and hilarious and made Steve’s insides feel like they were flying, singing, and he was all Steve’s. It made the back of Steve’s throat ache and his eyes burn, like there was a balloon in his head being filled with all the pure  _ love _ Steve felt for Bucky.

Steve let his hands fall to the lines and gently, reverently, traced them with his fingertips, letting them linger on Bucky’s waistband before moving them back up, just slightly, and pressing into the hollows between the muscles and Bucky’s hip bones. It was one of Bucky’s most ticklish, sensitive spots, and pressing there was making Bucky’s breath hitch. Steve made some sort of choked noise in response, pride at making Bucky turned on mixing with Steve’s own unhinged arousal.

“Like what you see?” Bucky asked, still managing to sound suave despite beginning to pant.

Steve swallowed dryly, looking for acceptable words other than “guh.” “Wanna kiss it,” he managed after a moment.

“Please,” Bucky said, sweeping his hand like he was a cheap used car salesman displaying his product in a cheesy commercial.

Steve allowed himself to fall more than guided himself forward, but either way, he was now face to face with Bucky’s bare torso. Bucky smelled like his body wash, clean and sweet, cigarette smoke, and just a little like Steve’s sheets, which was driving Steve out of his fucking head. Steve let himself kiss Bucky’s abs first, up the line in the middle, up into his sternum, and around his pecs, taking a moment to tweak Bucky’s nipples.

Bucky seemed to like that, arching off the bed and inhaling deeply, hands scrabbling for purchase on Steve’s back before settling on his shoulders and squeezing tightly, a distorted, near-pornographic mirror of the position they’d been in earlier when Bucky was comforting Steve.

“Fuck,” Bucky mumbled after a minute. “Stevie, I’m  _ hard.” _

Steve smiled against Bucky’s chest and kissed it, right above the spot where Steve could best hear Bucky’s heartbeat. “Yeah? You ready, sweetheart?”

Bucky didn’t grace that with a response, merely pushing at Steve’s shoulders to get him to sit up enough for Bucky to stand up, turn his back to Steve, and kick off his shorts and boxers. Steve watched dumbly, his hands absently gripping his own gym shorts in tight fists. If Bucky’s torso was gorgeous, having him bare . . .  _ elsewhere _ was even hotter.

First, Steve’s eyes immediately fell to Bucky’s ass. Jesus  _ Christ, _ that should be the fucking dictionary entry for bubble butt. Steve wanted badly, desperately to squeeze it just to feel it, hard and tight. The skin there was pale, in sharp contrast to the golden cast Bucky had everywhere else. It was vulnerable, all for Steve, and  _ fuck _ if that wasn’t an addictively heady feeling.

Bucky’s back muscles were nothing to scoff at either, corded and taut and absolutely lovely. Steve wanted to lick them, a thought which made him flush down to his fucking belly button.

Steve ogled for another moment, ready for Bucky to turn around, but enjoying the view while he wasn’t. Bucky didn’t seem to be sharing the love; his gorgeous bubble butt was dimpled in at the sides where Bucky’s muscles were tensed. Bucky was watching Steve’s expression over his own shoulder, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. He was scared, worried about his body under Steve’s eyes. That wouldn’t do, not at all.

Steve practically flew to Bucky’s side, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s delightfully warm middle and kissing the junction of Bucky’s neck and shoulder with fervor. Steve couldn’t see Bucky’s sweet little ass anymore, but he could feel it pressing against his hip bones and crotch, and that was almost better. Bucky’s back muscles were tense. It was such a contrast to his usual brash confidence that Steve felt his insides  _ melt. _

Bucky was trusting Steve enough to be vulnerable with him. And it was Steve’s number one job to reassure him, let him know that Steve loved him and was incredibly excited to be there with him, be intimate with him in this way.

“You’re so pretty, Buck,” Steve whispered hoarsely into Bucky’s skin. “I can’t even think, Jesus, you’re so hot. Can’t wait to suck you.”

Bucky shivered against Steve, and Steve smiled. “I love you, Bucky.”

“Back at ya, pal,” Bucky murmured.

“Wanna get back on the bed, sweetheart?” Steve tightened his grip on Bucky’s middle, trying to reassure him once more about how much Steve adored him.

Bucky nodded mutely and turned around.  _ Shit, _ that was a sight. Bucky’s cock was standing out, almost proud from his body, the shaft a soft, blush pink that reminded Steve of sunrise, and the head going an angrier red. A little drop of precome was hanging from the slit, and Steve felt himself shudder.

What Steve was feeling was different than any arousal Steve had ever felt before. Instead of simply humming under Steve’s skin, this arousal was pulsing,  _ throbbing. _ Well, that might just have been his heartbeat reverberating out of his dick, but either way, Steve had to take a deep breath to steady himself. He felt like his center of gravity was wobbling way up above his head, and he put a hand down on the bed to make sure he didn’t just topple over.

Bucky sprawled himself out on Steve’s duvet, his eyes following Steve’s slow clamber in between his thighs. Steve winked at Bucky just to tease him a little, and was rewarded with Bucky flushing nearly as brightly as the head of his cock, and flopping his head back onto the pillows, already breathing hard.

“Steve?” Bucky asked, still looking up at the ceiling. His hands were on his belly, pushing down like he was grounding himself.

“Yeah, Buck?” Steve asked, letting his own hands rest on Bucky’s outer thighs and squeezing lightly, sweetly. A touch meant to comfort, not to arouse. Bucky’s thighs were muscular, just like Steve’s own, and felt nice to grip and hold. It felt right. This whole thing did. There were no performative actions like Steve had taken with everyone else he’d slept with or gone down on. This was all natural, honest, and achingly earnest.

“Can you take your shirt off, please? I wanna see you.” Bucky sounded almost embarrassed to be saying it, but for Steve, it was impossibly hot. His boyfriend wanted to look at him naked because it would get him off. There wasn’t much of a higher compliment.

“Yeah, Buck, of course.” Steve stripped out of his T-shirt and tossed it on the ground. Bucky rewarded his actions by making a small, choking noise and reaching his hands out to clutch Steve’s shoulders.

“Like what you see?” Steve goaded, using Bucky’s earlier words against him.

Bucky didn’t say much of anything, just thrust his hips up into empty air and groaned. He was leaking more steadily now, and the only friction he’d gotten was rubbing up on Steve’s ass several long minutes ago.

The reassuring Bucky from when Steve had first suggested blowjobs was gone, replaced by a trembling, sweet heap of a thing. This Bucky was a mess, cheeks flushed and cock drooling precome.

Steve was finding he didn’t even need Bucky’s reassurances anymore. This would be okay. Bucky loved him, and was clearly into him. They’d figure it out. Plus, Bucky’s physical reactions were evidence enough that he was enjoying the proceedings.

“Haven’t even touched you, sweetness, and look at you,” Steve marveled, settling his hands back on Bucky’s thighs, the inside this time. They were flushed, too. His whole body was, from cheeks to navel to dick to nearly his knees. This was another thing Steve had never known about Bucky -- in the bedroom, he was a blusher. “Pink all over. Down to your fucking knees. Love you.”

Bucky honest-to-god  _ whimpered, _ a high-pitched, desperate sound that was as heady as it was adorable. Steve couldn’t help but squeeze himself through his shorts, just to ease the ache, if only slightly.

“Ready?” Steve asked. As much as he was ready to make Bucky feel good, he didn’t want to make Bucky, already clearly overwhelmed, absolutely shatter.

Bucky nodded silently, letting one hand down from Steve’s shoulder and instead stretching it toward Steve’s heart. “Hold my hand?” he asked, voice small and thick with arousal.

Steve smiled at the sweet request. It would be as comforting for Steve as it would be grounding for Bucky. This way, if Steve fucked up, choked or grazed Bucky with his teeth or something, Bucky could squeeze his hand and offer non-verbal affirmations that it was okay, that Steve was still loved. If Bucky felt too overwhelmed, he could feel Steve’s fingers and know that he was safe, that Steve was here for him. They would communicate. It would be perfect.

“Of course, baby.”

Steve laced his fingers with Bucky’s already-sweaty ones. God, Steve’s baby was such a mess. Steve shifted so he was laying on his stomach, weight leaned in the elbow of the arm that was being gripped by Bucky, and head hovering over Bucky’s groin. Now Steve was truly face-to-face with Bucky’s cock.  _ Shit, _ Bucky was big.

Steve didn’t let that worry him, though. Bucky promised that they’d communicate, and their hands were joined to do just that. Steve’d be fine. Plus, this was a lot less complicated than a pussy, and Steve’d had plenty of experience with those. At least Steve himself had a dick. He knew how they worked, and what he liked when he was being sucked. He just needed to apply that logic.

Plus, he was holding Bucky’s hand. That pretty much automatically meant that Steve’d be okay.

Steve spat into his hand copiously and wrapped his free hand around Bucky’s shaft, just barely circling it. Bucky’s breathing was already getting more labored, and he made an unhappy whining sound. “Don’t tease, Stevie. Hurts,” Bucky moaned plaintively.

Steve shook his head. He hadn’t been trying to tease, but his apprehensive, barely brushing touch had done just that. Steve liked pressure when he was getting his dick sucked. Same principle. He gently tightened his hand until Bucky’s hips were canting off the bed and was panting. Steve wasn’t even moving yet, but at least he’d found something that made Bucky feel good.

“Sensitive?” Steve teased, looking up Bucky’s heaving torso to make eye contact with him.

Bucky, even as he was panting and starting to sweat at his hairline, was glaring murderously at Steve. “I hate you.”

Steve pouted exaggeratedly. “Well,  _ I _ love  _ you.” _

Bucky tightened his grip on Steve’s hand. “Me too. But I also hate you.”

“Mixed bag, huh?”

Bucky rolled his eyes until Steve started rubbing his hand up and down, stripping Bucky’s cock slowly and firmly. The shaft was velvet-smooth under Steve’s grip, hot and hard and a million times sexier than how Steve’s own cock felt under his own grip.

At Steve’s movements, Bucky  _ squealed _ like a girl getting a new car for her 16th birthday, high-pitched and near-hysterical. Steve smiled in spite of himself. For all of Bucky’s purported sexual promiscuity, he was a real sweet mess when it got down to it. Bucky was falling apart just from Steve rubbing him. Steve hadn’t even gotten his mouth on Bucky yet.

This was going to be okay. Bucky was feeling good already. If Steve needed to switch to just a handjob for whatever reason, it would be okay. Bucky wouldn’t be upset. Steve needed to feel good for Bucky to feel good.

Steve slowed his hand, ignoring Bucky’s yelp in protest, and gently lowered his head to Bucky’s cock, licking once over the slit. Bucky’s precome was a little saltier than Steve’s own, but it was good and perfect and hot. Even hotter when Bucky made a high-pitched, practically inhuman noise, and tangled the fingers of his free hand in Steve’s hair. He wasn’t pulling or pushing Steve down, but rather rubbing through the locks like he was reminding himself that Steve was real. The hand Steve was holding started gripping tighter.

“Steve, c-can you suck m-me?” Bucky cut himself off with another noise.  _ “Hnng, _ fuck, I-” Bucky let out another choking sound. “Christ, Stevie, it  _ hurts. _ Please.”

Steve’s sweetie was a mess, sprawled out and panting. Steve looked up at him one more time. Bucky’s blush hadn’t spread more, but rather had deepened in color, a sunburned-looking red flushing over his whole torso and ruddy cheeks. He was all laid out for  _ Steve. _ He was panting and begging for  _ Steve. _ Steve exhaled harshly through his nose.

He almost wanted to just stop and gather Bucky up in his arms and kiss his forehead, tell him to breathe, that Steve would take care of him. Bucky didn’t need to beg. Steve had him, would never let him go.

Bucky’d had Steve’s back since day one, and Steve would always,  _ always _ have Bucky’s.

“I got you, Buck. It’s gonna be okay.”

Steve tightened his grip, both on Bucky’s hand and his cock. He gently lowered his mouth to Bucky’s groin, and took the head in his mouth. For a minute, he just sat there, feeling it. Tasting it. Bucky smelled all sweaty down here, but he tasted more neutral than salty, like warmth and closeness, like all the winter nights Steve wanted to lie tangled with Bucky, tongues in each other’s mouths.

The head wasn’t too big, either. As long as Steve kept his mouth stretched like he was about to yawn, he was in no danger of hurting Bucky with his teeth. Steve wanted to push his head further down, but an experimental shove forward already had Steve’s throat constricting, so instead he sat where he was.

Bucky’s hand was a vice grip on Steve’s. His inhales were noisy, his exhales little moans. Steve was just holding Bucky, in his mouth and his hand, and already Bucky was practically inconsolable with pleasure. Steve’s sensitive baby.

“Steve,” Bucky panted. “Unh.”

Steve pulled back, his chin still brushing Bucky’s head. “Articulate, huh?”

Bucky had the good grace to laugh at Steve’s joke, panting even as he giggled and shook the bed lightly. “Please, Stevie. Want you.”

Steve flushed deeply. His perfect boyfriend wanted him so badly. Steve squeezed Bucky’s hands and sunk his head down over Bucky’s head again. This time, though, he began to stroke up and down the shaft, pressing sweet and firm as he did. He wasn’t moving too quickly, but it was still the fastest he’d moved yet.

With his mouth, Steve began to suckle gently but solidly, like he was trying to get the last sip of a milkshake out of an almost empty container. Spit was leaking out of his mouth and down Bucky’s shaft, adding to the slick sensation. The smell was a little heady and musky, and Steve panted through his nose, finding that he kind of liked it. It was hot and dirty and close, perfect for how Steve was feeling.

Bucky, meanwhile, was clearly having the time of his life, moaning and squealing and squirming, wrapping his legs around Steve’s waist, rubbing Steve’s sides with his inner thighs, stroking Steve’s hair, hooking his ankles wherever he could find purchase. Bucky was quite literally squeaking whenever Steve’s thumb or tongue swiped over his frenulum.

The only thing that was stable was Bucky’s grip on Steve’s hand. It was solid, unmoving, and full of loving squeezes and sweat from the exertion.

Steve himself was aching almost painfully from his own incredible arousal and utter lack of stimulation. He couldn’t help but rut against his own mattress, desperate for some relief. The ache slowly began to ease, and Steve used his own movements to aid in beginning to bob his head. He didn’t move much more than an inch, but in Steve’s experience and, judging from how Bucky’s sounds jumped practically an octave, it was more than enough for Bucky.

Plus, Steve wasn’t choking! His hand and lips and chin were covered in spit and copious amounts of precome, but he wasn’t choking! Steve began to accelerate both his hand and his own hips, chasing sweet, desperate pleasure for both him and his partner. Steve’s own mouth was making illicit slurping sounds that made Steve cringe. After each one, though, Bucky let out a little sigh of sound, and that eased Steve’s discomfort. A curse, or a groan, or a call of Steve’s name.

Steve began to hump his mattress in earnest, just a little harder than he had been, rubbing the underside of his dick against his boxers and the top against his lower belly. He was acting desperate, and he knew it, groaning haphazardly and grinding at any angle to provide his dick with a little relief. Bucky liked Steve’s groans. Each time the vibrations traveled the length of Bucky’s shaft, Bucky would let out a desperate cry.

Steve felt the apples of his cheeks fill with a happy blush. He had never,  _ ever _ felt like this, especially not during sex. He felt like he was flying, soaring, air buffeting his back and sides, and sweet, warm heat between his legs. Best of all was Bucky, who was practically catatonic at this point, his eyes flying wildly between watching Steve’s face and fluttering closed, only to open and watch again after a bare moment. Steve’s baby was so beautiful when he was feeling good.

It had never been like this going down on Peggy. Then, even though Steve had been plenty good at it, it had just felt like another sex act. Now, this felt about a trillion times more intense than that.

Every pleasured hitch of Bucky’s breaths made Steve’s own air catch in his throat. Every jerk of his legs made Steve grind into the bed just a little harder. His stomach felt like it was filled with carbonation, fizzing pleasantly and sweetly and bubbling out whenever Steve moaned into Bucky’s velvet-soft skin.

Steve even found himself enjoying the scratch of Bucky’s wiry pubic hair against his hand. He’d never been with a partner who wasn’t bare before, and Steve was quickly learning that he liked it. Or maybe that was just Bucky. Steve felt insanely, achingly turned on, but his thoughts were just mush, every sense shouting over each other in a cacophony of “Bucky. Fuck Bucky. Make him feel good.”

Steve looked up at Bucky, his flush and his labored breathing. His hair, so soft and sweet in his braid earlier, was a tangled, sweaty mess of curls that Steve wanted to kiss, to feel against him in any way possible. Bucky’s eyes were dazed and glassy and supremely desperate. His lips were parted, red from kissing and biting, and they gently formed nonsense syllables in beautiful patterns.

Steve ground harder against the bed, and moved his hand on Bucky’s shaft a little faster, trying to communicate nonverbally how  _ gone _ he was for Bucky. Even the fact that Bucky, clearly out of his mind with pleasure, was still holding Steve’s hand, steady and sweet, was driving Steve out of his mind. As pleasurable and good as this felt, it was impossible to ignore how much Bucky loved him. And  _ fuck _ if it wasn’t completely mutual.

Steve’s jaw was beginning to ache, so he carefully lifted his head off of Bucky’s shaft and switched to only using his hand, making sure to twist on the upstroke to make up for the loss of his mouth. He planted a few wet kisses to Bucky’s hips to give his mouth a break but still provide Bucky with stimulation, his hand still going steady and flicking his wrist. Even with the pain in his jaw and the fact that Steve’s wrist was beginning to ache, he was feeling  _ good. _ The bed, while certainly not Bucky’s wanton mouth, was rubbing him fine, and he had his best guy right there with him.

Steve dipped down to kiss around Bucky’s base, remembering how much that set himself off when he was having his own cock sucked. Steve couldn’t help but feeling stupidly proud of himself. He’d never sucked a dick before, and here Bucky was, acting like Christmas had come early. So to speak.

Steve was just going off instinct and educated guesses, and Bucky was literally writhing, all for Steve. It had never been like that with a woman before. This felt right.

Steve paused his oral ministrations to lean back the few inches he could and just squeeze Bucky’s hand. Steve’s hand on Bucky’s cock was still going (Steve wasn’t cruel), but this way Steve could just study Bucky for a minute or two.

Bucky was starting to sweat more, beads running down his chest and forehead. The smell of the sweat was heady and intense, but strangely pleasant and comforting, contrasting lightly with the taste of salty bitterness of Bucky’s precome that was still sitting on the back of Steve’s throat. Even though none of it was exactly pleasant by itself, together, it had Steve feeling elated inside, the carbonated feeling from before bubbling up happily.

This was  _ Bucky. _ These were  _ Bucky’s _ scents,  _ Bucky’s _ beads of sweat,  _ Bucky’s _ reaction to feeling so good. That alone made it just right.

Even better than the smell were the sounds, though. In between gasps and meaningless moans, Bucky was still babbling. Steve caught his name a few times, as well as several “love you”s and at least three “never sucked a cock before my ass”es. He was loud and squeaky and nowhere near composed. It wasn’t sexy in the way guys’ soft grunts in pornos are. Instead, it was sexy in that it was vulnerable and exposing and fragile. It was understated, soft, and infinitely more intimate than manly groans. This was all Bucky, honest and open and all for Steve.

Fuck if that wasn’t a heady thought. Steve ground his hips a little faster, finding a slick rhythm that helped keep Steve’s attention on Bucky and away from the aching, burning need building in the pit of his stomach. The carbonation was threatening to explode like a volcano, powerful and intense. The feeling was huge, bigger than Steve could possibly contain, especially while having the sensory experience that was Bucky right in front of him.

After only a moment or two more of rubbing and stroking, Bucky groaned loudly, even louder than his squeals. “Stevie, I’m -- ah,  _ ahh,  _ hnng,  _ Stevie _ \-- gonna come!” Bucky’s cry was squeaked, high-pitched and precious, and Steve felt his heart kick with something sweeter and more intense than mere arousal.

Steve just pressed his palm more firmly to Bucky’s and gave one more mighty squeeze at Bucky’s frenulum. Bucky made a quiet, high-pitched sound like the air had been punched out of him. His lips were parted in a small O-shape, his hand was wringing Steve’s, and he kicked his legs out. His hips canted up into Steve’s tight fist, arching his whole torso off the bed and making his head fall back and stare at the ceiling as he was wracked by his orgasm.

Steve kept stroking, encouraging Bucky to keep going through his orgasm, to keep making those sweet, choked noises of his. “So sexy, Buck. Love you, baby. Just relax. I got you,” Steve murmured, the words steady despite the frantic jerks of his hips. Steve’s encouragements worked; ropes of Bucky’s come painted Steve’s hand and Bucky’s belly. Steve noted absently that a streak landed near Bucky’s fucking  _ chin. _

Steve himself was closer to the edge that he realized. He humped down only a few more times, clasping Bucky’s hand in a death grip. The carbonation inside Steve exploded, and he made some sound midway between choking, groaning, and Bucky’s name.

It was intense to say the least.

Steve could hardly catch his breath as he panted, nuzzling into the junction of Bucky’s thigh and hip. Physically, Steve was exhausted. It felt like he’d run a thousand sprints, rounded the bases a million times. His jaw was sore and aching, and his wrist was trembling from overuse. His spit and Bucky’s come were drying sticky on his hand and chin, not to mention the mess within his own boxers.

Beyond the mere physical sensation, though, Steve felt elation. His insides were full and warm, like a well-loved stuffed animal. He was absolutely limp, but completely sated and sweet. Steve felt his breaths beginning to slow toward normalcy as he crept up Bucky’s body and lay on Bucky’s chest, right above his heart.

Steve didn’t care that he was smearing jizz over his bare torso, nor that Bucky’s chest was rising and falling a little too fast to be comfortable as a pillow. He didn’t care that he had spend in his boxers that was now clinging to him uncomfortably. He didn’t care that his jaw was hurting or that he was lying like a dead fish on his similarly exhausted boyfriend.

The only thing Steve really cared about was the fact that his love was holding him tight, and that Steve could hear Bucky’s steadily thudding heartbeat.

Bucky’s chest was rumbling. Steve liked it; it felt safe and steady, like falling asleep in the car after the pool when you were a little kid. Steve nuzzled Bucky’s chest, ignoring the unpleasant sensation that came with rubbing semen around with his cheek.

“Baby?”

Steve realized only belatedly that the rumbling in Bucky’s chest was him speaking, and Steve half-heartedly tilted his head to look up at Bucky. Bucky was still flushed, his breaths still coming fast, but his eyes were more lucid than they had been and he had a dopey smile playing at the corner of his lips.

“Mmm?” Steve hummed in response, liking that Bucky had called him “baby.” He was Bucky’s baby, that was true. No one else’s.

“Want me to take care of you?” Bucky asked, his hands going to Steve’s bare back and rubbing up and down, helping to ground Steve despite the floaty feeling that had pervaded him.

“Took care of myself on the bed,” Steve explained, yawning and cuddling into Bucky’s sternum.

“You humped the bed?” Bucky asked, awe lacing his tone.

Steve couldn’t help but smirk. “Yeah.”

“Fuck, Stevie. I love you stupidly much.”

“Back at you, pal.”

So maybe they would lose the League Championship. Maybe scouts wouldn’t want Steve. All of that was okay because Steve had this. He had his Bucky.

And his Bucky was infinitely better than whatever dream had sparked Steve’s long-dormant love. Steve would take this any day.

Steve would always choose his Bucky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing! Look out for a short epilogue soon, and take care of yourselves!


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